


Specialist of the Impossible

by LunaStorm



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:11:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 30,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStorm/pseuds/LunaStorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Harry is rich, famous and bored and Death has managed to scatter around yet more prized possessions, which doesn't come as a big surprise, all in all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Why it all began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter was 26 years old, rich, famous, and at a loss as to what to do with himself.

Harry Potter was 26 years old, rich, famous, and at a loss as to what to do with himself.

o

Straight after the war he’d been inducted into the Auror Corps.

Back then, he’d been ecstatic and euphoric. What he’d believed for years to be his dream was coming true, and with minimal effort on his part: they hadn’t even demanded that he take his N.E.W.T.s (though he supposed offing a Dark Lord could count as sufficient extra credit).

In hindsight, he could now admit that the highly irregular enrolling had been a very convenient way to, a) boost the Ministry’s image by associating it with everybody’s beloved hero (and didn’t that gall, that he’d ended up a poster-boy after all?) and b) keep him under control, by indoctrinating him on his ‘duty towards the Ministry’ and by regulating what he learned and how (wouldn’t do to let him become the next Voldemort, or worse, the next Dumbledore).

He was honest enough not to blame the Ministry however.

They were politicians, and as politicians they thought: which, despite everything, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. After all, they hadn’t forced him or even pressured him. They had given him exactly what he wanted.

Back then, he’d been eager to become an Auror, full of enthusiasm for the training and his future career. All they’d done was smooth things over so that it would be easy for him to follow the path he’d chosen and that was so opportunely suitable.

o

The problem was that it had taken him less than six months to realize that it wasn’t what he wanted after all.

He _didn’t_ like being an Auror.

It had nothing to do with the training being exhausting, nor with him being tired of fighting. Far from it actually: the varied, demanding, taxing, nerve-wrecking, relentless training regime that drained every Trainee was, to Harry, amazingly interesting and it filled him with a joy for learning that he’d never felt before, challenging his mind, his magic and his body in truly satisfying ways; the few mock-battles he got involved with charged him with exhilarating adrenaline and made his blood sing with passion.

No, the reason he was second-guessing himself was the rigid hierarchy and mindless discipline the job required.

He wasn’t used to _obeying orders_.

He was used to follow only his own lead; to bend and break the rules as he saw fit; to make up his own mind about things without trusting the ‘official version’; to put into action solutions he and his friends came up with without seeking _permission_ , much less from paper-pushers.

No, blindly following directives from people he often didn’t trust or even respect and carrying out assignments he didn’t even know the reasons for was _not_ for him.

o

He tried to stick at it, because he didn’t want to let go of his dream, and because he felt a bit childish at saying he ‘didn’t want to follow the rules’.

He could almost hear Snape’s caustic voice in his head: _Potter_ _has been crossing lines ever since he arrived here – don’t go blaming others for Potter's determination to break rules – arrogant, spoilt…_ He didn’t want to admit Snape might have been right!

So he grit his teeth and soldiered on, and managed to make it all the way through his first year as Trainee before breaking down and telling everything to his two best friends.

Ron had been shocked, hurt, offended and appalled ( _Don’t you want to be my partner? Mate, I thought this was what you wanted! That we were in this together!_ ); Hermione had been sympathetic but _not_ understanding ( _Honestly, Harry, I know it’s hard, but it’s time you grew up…_ )

Between the two of them, they’d talked him into facing his second year of Auror training (though ‘cajoling’ would be a better description, or possibly ‘guilt-tripping’).

It had been a mistake.

Harry had grown more and more miserable, his short temper even shorter, his bad moods legendary; anger or brooding his default states of mind.

Not even the ever demanding training could distract him.

At the end of the year, without saying anything to Ron or Hermione, he'd left the Auror Corps for good and then locked himself inside Number 12, Grimmauld Place in order to avoid dealing with everybody’s disappointment.

o

Three weeks later, George Weasley had at last managed to break into the grim house and dragged him out into the world again.

George had taken him on a Weasley Whirlwind Week, as he called it, which consisted in taking his mind off things by means of too much alcohol, too loud music and a lot of dancing (along with a bit of heavy snogging with random partners, though Harry didn’t go any further because of Ginny) in an impressive number of muggle clubs.

It had rather effectively distracted Harry from his grumpy mood.

Then George had dropped him off at the Burrow, to be scolded and fussed over, reproached and reassured by his extended adoptive family (even ‘Grandma’ Andromeda had come for this).

And while there _had_ been disappointment, they had quickly swallowed it and proclaimed that he had every right to be tired of violence and to desire a quieter life.

Harry hadn’t bothered correcting their assumptions. They felt more justifiable than the truth.

Then everybody had joined a brainstorming session aimed at determining ‘what Harry should do now’.

o

He hadn’t objected too much to the suggestion of becoming a professional Quidditch player. Why should he have?

He’d received invitations from every team in the League (except the Holyhead Harpies, for obvious reasons) and besides, he had once admitted unselfconsciously that Quidditch was all he was good at. It was the perfect solution, wasn’t it?

And the moment he’d found himself on a broom again, after two years of not having the time for it, he was utterly convinced that nothing in the world could ever suit him better.

Flying was as natural to him as breathing – and almost as necessary.

Yes… Quidditch was the fulfilment of his every dream…

Or so he'd thought.

Too bad that the actual flying time was _nothing_ when compared to the amount of hours _wasted_ on ‘public relations’ – giving interviews, releasing statements, signing autographs, endorsing products on command, going to ‘the right parties’… in short, everything Harry disgustedly gathered under the heading ‘catering to fans’.

He'd brought the Chudley Cannons to their first victory since 1892 (an endeavour judged ‘most impressive’ by _Seeker Weekly_ ) and joined the British National Team for the European Cup, where he'd had the chance to challenge none other than Victor Krum in what several magazines declared "the most breath-taking and foolhardy seeker-to-seeker race since the days of ‘Dangerous Dai’ Llewellyn".

But he'd hated it.

Every minute of it, every silly gushing groopie going wild for an autograph, every greedy reporter gleefully digging into his private life and past, every absurd fan stalking him outside his door, every idiotic nickname and mock-title he was given, every stupid line the press agents forced him to feed the media…

If he’d thought his fame as the Boy-Who-Lived was bad… this, this was a hundred times worse!

o

His Quidditch days had also marked the beginning of the end for his relationship with Ginny.

A successful Chaser herself, already slated to become the next Captain of the Holyhead Harpies as soon as the celebrated Gwenog Jones retired, Ginny found true delight in regularly appearing in public – and on the covers of several magazines – looking good on Harry’s arm. She didn’t seem at all fazed by the blinding sea of flashbulbs they were met with on even the simplest stroll and she clearly enjoyed the ocean of voices calling their names outside the stadiums.

She'd laughed at his grumblings about being unable to keep the fans at bay and insisted on reading to him every line _Quidditch Monthly_ , _The Witchcraft Tribune_ and _Witches Chic_ printed on her and Harry, despite his reiterated protests that he didn’t _want_ to know.

Whenever Harry had tried to make her understand just _how much_ he hated the circus his life had become, she'd brushed him off as ridiculous or actually got offended. "Oh, Harry, we aren't on display! Our love is our own and stronger than they can see - this... all this, I know you don't like it much, but it's simply what we owe our fans, for supporting us! Try and enjoy it, won't you?"

Harry couldn't understand her. She seemed to expect him to simply go through life hand in hand with her, oblivious to the glare of the flash bulbs and the shrieks of the crowd that drove him mad.

After the sixth time she’d playfully posed for a moronic freelancer who was holding his camera up and shooting off several rounds even as Harry was flinging him from the premises, Harry had told her it was over.

She’d been incredulous and offended, the tabloids had had a field day with it, Molly had been inconsolable and over two thousand offers of anything from marriage to kinky sex had come from witches all over Europe, in letters complete with suggestive photographs.

All in all, Harry had been miserable.

o

At last, though, the outcry about his leaving the Quidditch scene – which had bordered on hysteria, with crying fans begging him to reconsider and a widespread movement of orange-clad idiots with scars tattooed on their foreheads petitioning for his return – had been somewhat contained when _Rumours!_ had first published (quickly followed by every other tabloid) the theory that he was depressed over the break-up with Ginny.

He'd been rather relieved that they'd stopped hounding him then, even if the pity was annoying; Ginny however had been less than pleased to find herself the target of Howlers and Hex-letters from deranged fans blaming her (especially after _Witch Weekly_ had insinuated her alleged infidelity as cause of the fallout, despite Harry’s indignant denials).

To get away from everything, Harry had seized the weirdest offer he’d had so far in his life: a contract for a series of exhibitions of stunt flying.

The manager, Meander Bancroft, organized the exhibitions to promote new brooms and had told Harry, quite frankly, that he’d receive more money than he had from the Cannons, as long as he flew more dangerous manoeuvres and sold more brooms. If Harry's popularity dropped, they would adjust his Galleons accordingly.

Harry had felt excitement running through his veins at the thought of all the dangerous moves he would have the occasion to fly – nay, he would _be paid_ to fly.

The sheer joy that he could find in the freedom of flying stunts, no pressure to find the Snitch, no need to watch out for Bludgers and fouls, was amazing. He’d always loved flying just for flying.

The element of danger in pulling off difficult stunts was enticing, too. After all, there was a reason why he’d earned the ‘Dangerous Dai’ Commemorative Medal – which was given every year to the player who took the most risks on the pitch – three years in a row.

So for a while, Harry had toured Europe, showing off his flying tricks. For a while, he had delighted in the gasps he elicited, in the excited shouts for his many close calls, in the admiring and amazed eyes that stayed riveted on him as he rolled and dived, spiralled and soared, somersaulted head over handle and bristles over heels, hanged upside-down and spun sharply, plunged falcon-like and rose again in twisting spirals…

The crowd going wild every time he revealed a new routine had never bothered him: he could tune them out the way he'd once done when playing Quidditch, easily maintaining a surface awareness in case someone else flew near him or he ran into the hoops of the Pitch or the ground, but keeping his focus on the motion of his body and the broom.

He loved it.

He loved how he could hear both magic and wind straining as they flowed through the bristles when he threw himself into a series of sideways rolls or rose to his feet and balanced on the broom's handle, sending the spectators into raptures.

He loved how his mind almost instinctively made sense of the speed of the wind, the soreness of his limbs from his earlier tricks, the momentum of the broom, and a dozen other factors, bringing him to the point where he knew, as he had always known where the Snitch was going to be, that he could perform the trick he wanted.

He'd loved his public, too - how the shouts of panic inevitably became yells of laughter and amazement and awe, once they realized what crazy stunt they had been privileged enough to witness.

He'd loved it immensely, for all of six months.

Then he'd begun to realize that there weren’t really all that many manoeuvres he could fit into a routine, that the manager showing off his skills and his name to sell brooms was getting tiresome, that the fans were starting to stalk him _again_ and this time they were even crazier than his earlier groupies.

And when Bancroft had organized a tour of the United States, he'd realized he didn’t want to go.

He’d grown used to travelling around Europe while moving from stadium to stadium with his teams, but the idea of finally leaving the continent he was born on just to be paraded around in pre-arranged circus shows had suddenly revolted him.

He wanted to travel, he knew that much. He didn’t want it to be on someone else’s schedule.

o

Unfortunately, the first few tourist trips he'd made on his own after leaving Bancroft – to Australia, to Morocco and to Brazil, just because – were disappointments.

Staying with a group that was led around like a bunch of sheep and told to marvel at this and admire that and enjoy pre-arranged activities at pre-determined times and taste exactly the array of typical cuisine that was prepared for them, kind of took all the fun out of travelling.

No, he definitely didn’t like obeying rules.

He wanted to go on an _adventure_ , finding things, discovering places, meeting people…

Easier said than done, because without a tour operator and without a specific purpose, he'd found himself pretty much stranded the first time he'd tried India.

It had taken him longer than was reasonable to figure out how to get to the Taj Mahal, he’d been robbed _twice_ in less than three days and he had been plagued by unexpected fares, hygiene problems and the insistent, unpleasant sensation that the locals were laughing at him behind his back, or worse, pitying him for his evident stupidity. He could only thank his foresight in going as a muggle, because he did not dare imagine what the added complication of his fame might have meant.

o

On top of that, there had been the harping Hermione was doing about his _wasting his life_. She still thought that he’d been irresponsible in leaving a serious career in the Auror Corps to do ‘nothing productive’ instead. She'd continually nagged him to lend his support to her political career, which albeit amazing for one so young, was severely impaired by her blood status, despite the _two_ wars that had been fought to stop this kind of discrimination.

Well, he'd given in of course, because Hermione was a force to be reckoned with and simply not liking the political scene didn’t seem to be a good enough reason to avoid it for her. However, after two major gaffes at Ministry functions, predictably blown out of proportions by the gleeful tabloids, she'd changed her mind on his involvement.

After that, Harry had stuck to plastering a smile as bright and as empty as a lamp bulb on his face and steadfastly declaring Hermione’s latest crusade of extreme importance. It worked surprisingly well, though it didn’t say much good about their world.

o

He'd ended up spending the majority of his time with Teddy Lupin, who was now six years old and had his Godfather wrapped around his little finger thanks to his infallible combo: an earnest desire of having his own way, a cute mischievous smile, and a great deal of noise.

He also let himself be caught in bouts of enthusiasm for the most diverse things, from Arithmancy, to Ceramics, to Owl breeding, to Mayan history. Generally, his passion for a certain topic would flare consumingly for anywhere between two and six weeks, before he got tired or bored or his attention was caught by something else.

He would have been the first to admit, however, that nothing he did truly satisfied him.

o

So there he was, 26 years old, rich, famous, and at a loss as to what to do with his life.

Which is why he couldn’t find it in himself to turn down the intriguing invitation…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of the flying stunts exhibitions is from ‘Learning Life Over’ by Meander Later, an unpredictably good Harry/Draco fic with an unexpected basic idea. If you want something different, long and well written this is worth a read.  
> Other ideas and snippets are inspired by jennavere’s hilarious ‘Quidditch Wife’ (and its sequel).  
> Quidditch data come, of course, from K.Whips’ ‘Quidditch Through the Ages’.


	2. A Mercurial Old Geezer

The house was large, beautiful, imposing, all white pillars and rows of delicate windows, framed by the dark green of majestic trees.

A second glance, however, revealed the degraded state of the paint, the dirt and humidity in the corners, the all-too numerous stains and obscured glasses and even a broken window two stories up.

It was clear that there had once been real money behind the place, but just as clear that whoever owned it now had lost it, or at the very least, had lost the will to care for the manor.

Harry walked briskly along the irregularly distributed, grass-spotted gravel and reached for the bell rope near the impressive but faded entrance doors, all the while wondering about the man he was supposed to meet.

Alivjo Perrison.

Not much was to be known about him: he was neither famous nor infamous in any way Harry had managed to determine. About all he'd been able to dig up was that he'd won a prize for the translation of a peculiar Runic text some forty years previous. After that, he seemed to have... disappeared. There wasn't even a record of a job or an activity he might have done in the last decades. No legal marriage or evidence of living relations. No criminal record. No published papers or whatnot... Nothing.

He had absolutely no way to guess what the odd letter he’d received from the man, requesting a meeting, might be about.

A frayed House-elf that Harry could only describe as 'dusty' welcomed him and led him to a small, dimly lit sitting room that looked like it had been hurriedly cleaned, in preparation for his visit, for the first time in years.

He only had a moment to take in the old, green-striped upholstery of a couch and matching armchairs crammed around a dark wooden tea-table and glance at the dark wooden heavy chest and cupboard lining the walls opposite to the wide, obstructed window in front of him; then his host shot out of the nearest armchair and bounded up to him.

“Mr Potter! What an honour, sir, what a pleasure! Come on, come in!” He gestured wildly to the other armchair. “Tea? Or maybe something a little stronger?” he chuckled conspiratorially.

Harry stared at him in shock.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting but this... wasn't it!

Alivjo Perrimore looked old, grey and frail. He was also _never_ still.

“I can barely believe that you're here! Here, in my own sitting room! This is so exciting!”

Harry's eyes grew cold and stormy. This better not be some crazy fan! The letter he'd received didn't indicate anything of the sort... but then again, you never knew with fans. If this damned old codger had made him come all the way to Northamptonshire just to gawk at his scar... or worse, he grimaced, for an autograph!...

“Mr Perrimore, whatever you might have read about me in the papers, I assure you it is wildly exaggerated. My Quidditch skills aren't that great...”

“Is that so?” asked his host, blinking his grey eyes owlishly with the air of someone who's being polite but underneath, is really rather indifferent: he looked genuinely perplexed by Harry's comment.

Nevertheless, Harry went on: “...And as for Voldemort, I had a lot of help...”

“Oh, that!” Perrimore waved him off impatiently. “Of course, of course, well done. Someone had to do it I suppose, and better you than me, says I,” he said dismissively.

Harry gaped.

In his entire life, well at least since he entered the wizarding world, he'd never met anyone who would dismiss his role in the war so nonchalantly.

He was, unexpectedly, a bit miffed; and a lot intrigued. If the man wasn't interested in his victory over the Dark Lord, and clearly wasn't a Quidditch fanatic either, then what did he want with Harry?

“It is your talent that fascinates me! So astonishing! So wondrous!” the old bloke was waxing lyrical, and Harry revised his assessment.

His only talent was flying: maybe the man was secretly obsessed with Quidditch after all. Or maybe he'd lived vicariously through Harry's stunt routines. Who knew?

“Mr Perrimore...” he tried to say, a bit uncertain on how to deal with the elderly yet energetic man.

“Why, to find such a fabled place at such a young age!” the other was going on, practically in raptures.

Huh?

Harry shut up, staring blankly. What was the bloke on about? The entire situation was as clear as mud! Just what had a fabled place got to do with flying?

“Tell me, Mr Potter... is it true... is it true that you saw, even _touched_ , the mythical Philosopher's Stone?” the elderly man was leaning forward where he sat, stars in his eyes, almost bouncing on the armchair, as giddy as a young schoolboy.

Completely baffled, Harry murmured an affirmative. Philosopher's Stone? The one from back in his first year at Hogwarts?

The other clapped his hands with glee. “Wonderful! Splendid!”

What the hell?!

“And the Mirror of Erised? Huh? Was that true as well?”

Harry nodded dumbly.

“Gryffindor's Sword? Huh? Huh? The Resurrection Stone?!”

Too gobsmacked to think straight, Harry merely nodded again.

“Marvellous!” the old man jumped on his seat, rubbing his hands with glee. “Splendid! You clearly have such a talent for this! And experience, too. It's wonderful! Perfect! You're hired!”

Harry just stared at the mercurial old geezer, stunned beyond words by the weird turn of events.

“Hired for what?!” he finally managed to ask.

The old bloke looked unnervingly like a cat about to jump the mouse as he said, very clearly: “Why, to retrieve Death's Chess Set, of course.”

* * *

Harry went home in a daze that day.

Was the man insane? Yes. Yes, he must be. He wasn't all bad, of course, but he wasn't all there either.

He mechanically put the ruby-coloured binder the man had given him, full of information on the task he’d somehow been roped into, on the kitchen table and sank on a chair, still trying to digest everything that he had been told that afternoon.

Death… had a Chess Set.

Well, all right. If… it?... could have a Cloak, then why not a Chess Set? He of all people should know that Impossible is Nothing. Especially when Magic is involved. And he certainly wasn’t surprised to hear that Death had scattered _yet more_ prized possessions around.

He vaguely wondered who was the wizard who’d created the Chess Set and just what, exactly, it did. Then again, it was probably easier to keep track of the fairy tale – anthropomorphic personification and all – rather than try and pry true information from some cobble-webbed family grimoire…

He closed his eyes, going over what the enthusiastic old fellow had told him: “Surely you’ve heard of all the tales about challenging Death to a game of chess, thus forestalling one’s demise as long as the game continues? Or playing for the life of a loved one? Why, the idea is older than feudalism, you know! There are examples dating back to myths of the 5th century BC… written accounts from the times of Chaucer… and you can see Death play chess on numerous ancient paintings, especially in the Scandinavian area... there is this church in Sweden where a fresco clearly depicts an Abbot challenging Death… and that is also the first, unequivocal proof of the existence of a peculiar Chess Set for these vitally important matches.”

Here he’d nodded several times, emphasizing his words. “Yes, yes. It makes sense, you see. If you could win a life with just about any chess game, why, everybody would start learning how to play from the earliest infancy! Nobody would die anymore at all! No, no. Obviously there is a bit more, quite a bit more about it. Specifically, this!”

He’d triumphantly showed Harry a reproduction of the already mentioned fresco. It showed a man in medieval clothes next to a rather disquieting yellowish skeleton grinning and moving a piece on a chessboard.

Harry had nodded dumbly, hoping he wouldn’t be called to comment.

“And this!” had gone on the old man, turning a page to show another reproduction, this time of a colourful church window portraying a dark-skinned armoured knight and another grinning skeleton in front of a chessboard. “And this!” had crowed the old geezer, proudly displaying more reproductions: a black and white print of a springy skeleton playing chess with a king in glitzy garments among a crowd of gawking spectators, an oil portrait of an elegant lady sitting across a chessboard from a chalk-white skeleton with a scythe…

“Do you see it? Do you? Do you?” pressed his host. “That is the answer! The proof!”

And Harry, though rather reluctantly, admitted that he did see it.

The various chess pieces depicted in those representations were all astoundingly alike… and peculiarly unlike any chess set he’d ever seen, be it for real or in pictures.

What really convinced Harry was that they weren’t _overtly_ dissimilar: there was nothing glaringly different about them. Yet they had an indefinable air of… _otherness_. One that he knew better than he would have liked: one that was peculiar to highly magical objects – even when described or represented by Muggles who shouldn’t have been able to sense their uniqueness.

“I devoted my whole life to the search for these chess pieces, Mr. Potter… my whole life,” had said Mr. Perrison with measured solemnity. His eyes were shining with intense emotion. “I studied… researched… gathered information like no other had done before! Now I don’t have much time left… I am old, and illness is slowly but surely claiming me… please, Mr. Potter!” He’d grabbed his arm with surprising strength, looking at Harry as if he was his last hope on Earth. “You _must_ see… what a unique challenge this is… a chance without parallel… I beg you: help me! Join me in this Quest!”

And Harry didn’t know if it was the moving enthusiasm of the energetic old man, or the soft lure of a mystery reminding him of more interesting times, or his own boredom casting an enticing light on the admittedly absurd proposition…

…but when Alivjo Perrison asked: “Will you do it?” - clear grey eyes pleading, frail voice full of hope and childish glee…

…he said yes.


	3. Scattered Pieces

Harry had to hand it to the Mercurial Old Geezer: the man was thorough.

Alivjo Perrison had gathered every parchment, book, journal excerpt and newspaper article even remotely connected with the chess pieces he was after, making copies when he couldn’t keep the original. He’d even put them all in a binder, neatly displayed and clearly labelled by date and country. Hermione would love this bloke.

Of course, only about half of the writings were in English. Typical.

Harry wasted half an hour on bemoaning this fact, before being struck by a brilliant idea, and floo-calling Hermione to ask about translation charms. The wizarding world had spells for everything, surely there was one that would allow him to read the blooming texts?

Alas, no such luck.

Sure, translation charms existed, but as it turned out, in order to cast one, you had to know both languages – the one you wanted to translate and the one you wanted to translate it to. And that was without even mentioning that translating spoken or written language required different sets of spells.

As it were, entire agencies thrived on providing this service – you go there, pay, and a witch or wizard who is fluent in both languages you’re interested in casts the charm on you, with durability spanning from two hours to fifteen days, in direct proportion to the amount of Galleons you are willing to part with.

Naturally, Hermione’s suggestion was to find a language course: the muggle world, she pointed out, offered many such lessons, especially in London, for just about every language under the sun.

Harry’s solution, on the other hand, was to ask for a list of the translation agencies and owl them about the cost of having a few things translated.

Once he had overcome the ‘minor’ obstacle, he set himself to the monumental task of reading everything very carefully and compiling a summarized list of the major points.

There were a number of oblique and sometimes nonsensical references to a Brotherhood of the Eternal Challengers, that sounded vaguely religious and far too mystical for Harry's tastes, and reminded him of Xeno Lovegood's ramblings about quests and believers besides; he dismissed all of it outright. Along with it went most of the speculation about the Queen, because there was nothing substantiated and the potential leads were too tenuous to be of use anyway.

The information on the rest of the pieces was more promising.

The Rooks, it seemed, had remained in the hands of their current owners’ families for centuries. It looked like he would have to go to Italy…

The King had been bought by an eccentric billionaire – Perrison had tracked down the papers – but unfortunately the man seemed to have moved to Patagonia for his retirement. Harry had to locate an atlas and look up where on Earth Patagonia might be just to get an idea of how far the man was supposed to be. He wasn’t happy to find out the term ‘antipodes’ worked well to describe the distance.

One Bishop was supposedly in Normandie, France, where Anna of Rohan, current Comtesse de Fougéres, had – hopefully – inherited it from her great-grandfather, who was the confirmed founder and keeper of the piece, retrieved during a French archaeological expedition in centre Italy under Napoleon’s rule.

The other Bishop, along with the only known-of Horse, could be tracked to Hungaria, specifically to a Mr. Hmrak, art collector, who had for certain acquired the two pieces just five years prior; unfortunately, after leaving notice at his place of work that he was taking a holiday to Praha, he’d never come back – and the pieces had disappeared with him. Of course.

Well, he doubted any of the current owners would just give up their pieces without battling an eye, but he might as well give it a try… if nothing else, getting in touch with them would be a start.

He started mentally composing his letters.

o

“I can’t believe you’re doing something so foolish!” was Hermione's comment some days later.

She and Ron had joined him in his bedroom, where he was steadily packing. Clothes and items were strewn almost everywhere in the room, like the after-effects of a whirlwind tornado that seemed to be centred on the open suitcase triumphantly sitting at the bottom of his bed, a dark sleeve of fabric dangling over one side.

Hermione was standing, rigid with disapprobation, an aged but still wrathfully glaring Crookshanks held against her bosom like a shield against Harry’s stupidity.

“You’ve been nagging me forever to start doing something with my life,” protested Harry weakly, balancing two Auror-standard Potions carriers to try and judge which weighted less.

“Something productive! Something… something sensible, Harry, something responsible. You have so many good qualities, and-“

“Hermione, _please_ ,” he cut her off, rolling his eyes.

“When I said you should get out and do something, throwing yourself into a harebrained adventure, on your own I might add, is not what I had in mind!”

She’d been going on like this from the moment he’d told them of his meeting with Alivjo Perrison – and of his decision of accepting the odd ‘job’ he’d been offered.

“So where’re you going first, mate?” asked Ron from where he was lazily lounging on Harry’s bed. Hermione started instantly berating him (“Ron! How can you encourage him…!”) but he ignored her rant with practised ease.

“Well,” said Harry, trying to refold his latest Weasley sweater so it would fit in the suitcase, “that French Countess is absolutely thrilled that a ‘researcher’ wants to have a look at her family’s castle, but unfortunately she’s getting married in two weeks, so this isn’t a good time. She’ll be delighted to have me as a guest once the honeymoon is over, though – or at least, that’s what her letter says.”

“Good luck to the poor bugger, whoever it is,” commented Ron idly.

“Ron! You prat!” hissed Hermione, now dividing with equity her reproachful glares between the two boys.

The redhead held up his hand in a placating gesture, amusement shining in his eyes.

Harry went on: “And since the billionaire who moved to Patagonia has virtually dropped off the face of the world during an expedition to the Tierra del Fuego...”

He shot Hermione a smug look, inordinately proud that he knew the right name of the Merlin-forsaken place.

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly, her lips almost slipping in a small smile despite the worry apparent on her face.

“And since I’ve heard nothing sensible from that Hungarian…” continued Harry.

“What do you mean?” asked Ron sharply, propping himself up on an elbow with a frown.

Harry shrugged, turning to look for the next item to pack: “It’s pretty much confirmed that two pieces were acquired by this Hmrak bloke who is, it seems, an art collector. Apparently he bragged about them to all of his colleagues when he bought them, some five years ago. Then about two months ago he went to Praha on holiday – something about seeing some precious ceramic piece at an exhibition there – and… nothing.”

He threw a bag of bath stuff into the suitcase rather carelessly.

“Nothing?” repeated Ron incredulously.

Harry dropped to his knees to look for a pair of trainers under his bed and his voice came out rather muffled as he rummaged: “He disappeared. Left said at his hotel that he was going to the police station and then… puff. Never came back, never called… nothing.”

He came up again, triumphantly holding one shoe: “Perrison found the report he made to the muggle police there – apparently he told the hotel staff the truth about his intentions – and it is full of what the agent who heard him out classified as ‘utter nonsense’: like being robbed by ‘man-beasts as savage as wolves’. We know better than to dismiss his claims, but it’s not much use anyway, because of course, the Muggles didn’t believe a word Hmrak said…”

“I’m not surprised,” commented Hermione with a sniff.

Harry shot her an annoyed look: “Really, Hermione, there’s no need to be like that… Muggles are this oblivious because we work bloody well hard to keep them that way!”

Hermione glared at him: “That’s not what I meant! I’m not surprised that this Mr. Hmrak was attacked by werewolves, is all. Praha is in the territory of the biggest and most structured lycanthropic pack in Europe, after all.”

“Really?” asked Harry in total astonishment.

“Certainly!” exclaimed Hermione, clearly surprised that he didn’t already know. “Not only do they number in the hundreds, they’re also pretty well organized and have fought tooth and claw – literally, at times – to be ruled by their own Lore rather than by common law. It was a big uproar, the matter was heatedly debated for ages and there were a number of terrorist attacks both against the werewolves and by them… There’s a whole chapter on the matter in Martin Causius’ _A Contemporary History of Eastern Europe…_ oh, but, for pity’s sake! _Don’t you two ever read?”_

Harry and Ron glanced at each other sheepishly, trying hard to contain their mirth. “Well, anyway, I’m starting with Bologna,” hurriedly concluded Harry, diving back under the bed for the second shoe.

“Italy, huh?” commented Ron, winking at Harry. “Cool. I’ve heard the birds there are beautiful and friendly, if you get what I mean!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Ronald!” cried Hermione exasperated, while Harry laughed some more.

Hermione turned to him with a frown, not saying anything, but clearly disapproving.

Harry dropped the pair of trainers atop a precarious pile of socks inside the suitcase and sighed: “Hermione…”

“I just don’t want you to get hurt!” she burst out suddenly. “You don’t know what all you’re getting yourself into and- and…”

In two steps, Harry was by her side and engulfing her in a huge hug, not bothered by Crookshanks’ ferocious hiss as he was unceremoniously dropped to the floor: “I’ll be careful, Hermione. I promise.”

She sniffed and hugged him back “You’ll better!”

She squeezed him tightly and then let go of him, her eyes a little puffy: “You keep in touch, you hear? I don’t want to be left wondering what absurd mess you’ve managed to plunge headfirst-“

Harry’s laughter interrupted her: “Hermione, everything will be fine!”

“So you say, mate,” threw in Ron, “but Hermione and I, we _know_ what kind of luck you have…!”

Harry rolled his eyes while Hermione sniffed a little.

“I’ll try and find you some up-to-date books on the situation in Prague, while you’re away,” she promised then. “Unless I can talk you out of this nonsense…?” she trailed off looking hopeful.

But Harry regarded her seriously: “No, I’m sorry but… I really want to do this. It’s _interesting_ ,” his eyes pleaded with her to understand.

She sighed and shook her head, but looked resigned: “Don’t go looking for trouble.”

“I don’t go looking for trouble…” grinned Harry, and Ron finished the running joke for him: “…trouble usually finds him!”

They laughed together and then Hermione whipped out her wand, casting a swift and perfect _pack!_ and making Harry groan: “You couldn’t have done it sooner and spared me grief!”


	4. Bologna

Harry breathed deeply in: the scent of the air here in Bologna was so different from London, warm and sweet and pleasant with an undertone of lazy joy, not a hint of rainy bitterness.

After arriving at the International Portkey Terminal in Venice a few hours earlier, he’d been directed to Corte Sconta Detta Arcana, Venice’s own magical district.

He was sorry that he couldn’t spare the time to visit the intriguing city properly and vowed to return at his leisure: what little he’d glimpsed of the graceful architecture and the peculiar canals had fascinated him.

He had other priorities on this trip, however.

He’d found out with delight that the Venetian wizards had set up centuries ago an ingenious system of connections with the principal Italian cities: a row of two-way portals, simple, easy, you just opened the door in Venice and stepped through it in Rome, or Palermo, or Florence… or, in Harry’s case, Bologna.

No awful spinning and soot markings, no lurching sensation and stomach-ache, no horrid feeling of being squashed through a rubber tube. It was brilliant!

Why hadn’t British wizards thought of this?

He’d have to ask Hermione when he went back. Maybe it was possible to import the idea or something.

Anyway, now he was in Bologna, where as he knew, the magical presence was minimal.

The portal itself opened on an abandoned back-alley with nothing in sight, a slight muggle-repelling charm the only protection. Bologna had been traditionally unfriendly towards wizardfolk… though there didn’t seem to be a valid reason for it to be so. Perhaps it was a religious matter. Harry really wasn't clear on that kind of things.

He stepped out of the alley right under the famous Portici and breathed deeply in again, catching a scent he couldn’t identify but made his stomach grumble in delight.

Right… maybe he could find some lunch before starting on his mission…

The delicious smell turned out to be freshly cut mortadella in a hot piadina, a kind of unleavened flat bread typical of Romagna, as the friendly lady who served him chattingly told him. Harry was glad of the translation charm and fascinated by the roundness and pleasant softness of the local accent. What few words he’d exchanged in Venice had sounded different – fuller and more musical but also less welcoming.

The rotund and cheerful lady, Mrs. Guidetti, having decided that he was a ‘foreign student’ and as such in need of hearty meals and clear directions, had brought him a dish of tagliatelle al ragù (“Home-made, mind you!”) that had Harry swearing off the Hogwarts cuisine in favour of hers, and told him quite a lot about Bologna and its many nicknames: Bologna La Dotta (The Learned), for its ancient university, Bologna La Rossa (The Red), for the warm colours of its roofs and houses, Bologna La Grassa (The Fat), because it had always been so rich in centuries past…

His curiosity spurred, he’d decided to indulge in a tour of the city, following Mrs. Guidetti's helpful indications.

He went to the Basilica of San Petronio and to the Sala Borsa, admired the famous 16th century Fountain of Neptune and got all the supposedly important Palazzi mixed up because they looked more or less the same to him; in mid-afternoon he took a stroll through the medieval market, where he lucked out and watched the owner of Beccari's (a renown delicatessen) illustrate the history of mortadella, from the third century b.C. right up until modern times, to a group of tourists who then enjoyed tastes of the various cold meats.

He was completely fascinated by the two Towers – Garisenda and Asinelli – and their story of rivalry and arrogance, which a good-humoured old man happily told him when he overheard him wonder about it; he was seriously alarmed, though, when the man warned him off climbing to the top of the Torre degli Asinelli, “lest you’ll never graduate from university, young man!”

It might be just a silly superstition… but he knew better than to dismiss such things. Magic had a way to be overlooked and still affect the world seriously… he wondered what kind of training you would need to recognize a curse on a place. Maybe he’d ask Bill when he had the chance.

When the very long twilight started painting the streets in darker and darker colours, he wandered among the numerous students of Italy's oldest university and found it was easy to chat with groups of them in the cafés and bars.

Come night time, he’d seen a lot, met a few interesting people and generally had a grand time, but he realized he hadn’t seen magic anywhere (unless the medieval Tower really was cursed).

Nor had he made any progress on his task.

Deciding to start over more seriously the following day, he wandered back towards the rooms he’d booked earlier.

His attention was caught however by a mixed group of adults and children gathering around someone who looked a bit like a guide. Curious, he drew closer and quickly found out that they were about to be led on a tour of the catacombs…

Impulsively, he bought a ticket.

The guide was great, making history come alive around them with her words. It was also amazing how they were crossing epochs with easiness: the ancient tunnels had had as busy a life throughout the centuries as the streets above them and the guide pointed out how the traces of time mixed and coexisted, allowing her to talk now of the ancient Romans who’d built a water system, then of the Partisans hiding there during WWII…

It was about half an hour into the tour, when they were moving through a winding tunnel and thus rather scattered in a long, irregular line, that Harry suddenly noticed something was going on.

Shadows struck him as being out of place without a reason. Odd movements caught his attention without him being able to pinpoint what was provoking them. His instincts were screaming at him that something was wrong.

And then a girl disappeared.

She’d been just a step or two behind Harry, careful to keep well away from her keen parents gushing about the wonders of history and seemingly more concerned with her many bracelets than with the sightseeing.

He hadn’t given her more than a glance or two, but he knew she’d been there all along: suddenly, she was not.

Uneasy and perplexed, Harry quickened his steps with the vague idea of alerting the girl’s parents.

And then the girl reappeared a few steps above him, looking dazed.

Harry stopped short and watched her suspiciously.

It was really her, low-cut jeans and bored face, still twirling and adjusting her bracelets endlessly and sighing a little with a put-upon pout from time to time.

Odd, that…

Harry started walking again, hurrying to follow the group; he was no longer paying any attention to the guide, though, his mind too busy working out the mystery.

He stopped abruptly again when he caught an odd movement with the corner of his eye, off to his right this time.

There was a man there a moment ago, he was sure! A stout one with a bright lilac polo shirt and a hint of moustaches…

He walked on slowly, senses on high alert, peering suspiciously in the darkness beyond the ring of light of the guide’s torch.

He took a turn and… yes! There! The man had reappeared, polo shirt a tad ruffled and looking dazed.

Very odd…

Harry slowed down even more, scrutinizing the tunnel suspiciously. If he hadn’t lived among magic for years he might have dismissed it all as a trick of his tired mind. But he knew better!

He fell behind the others, eyes peeled to try and catch the next disappearance. He had no doubt it would happen again. He was fingering his wand, ready and waiting…

When icy cold hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him off, expertly muffling his instinctive scream, he barely had the time to curse at his own stupidity and think a very heartfelt: ‘Oh, hell!...’


	5. Taken aback

Harry struggled feebly against his captor, almost too busy berating himself for his stupidity to remember to panic.

He was dragged off down a dark lateral passage at high speed. His feet were scraping the ground without finding purchase and at every turn he was thrown around like a rag doll, bumping painfully on the brick-covered walls of the tunnels.

Then with a last, sharp turn, his captor stopped abruptly and plastered himself to a niche in the wall, yanking Harry flash to his taller, surprisingly lean but definitely stronger body.

Twisting violently in an attempt to get away, Harry turned to glare at his captor right on time to catch sight of a fanged snarl descending onto his neck.

Before he even processed his own reaction, his wand had snapped out a Repelling Hex at his assailant, that was thrown back with a screech. What the hell! The Statute of Secrecy was all very well and good, but not at the price of his life! Besides he doubted that the thing was muggle... in fact... it looked a lot like a vampire!

Casting a silent  _lumos,_ Harry darted his eyes here and there, quite determined not to be caught off guard again; nothing was moving; no-one was there except for him and... the vampire.

Pale, waxy white skin, emaciated features twisted in a snarl that displayed protruding teeth... the tall humanoid could have been that Sanguini Harry had met once at Slughorn's Christmas party, except that he had lighter – blondish – hair instead of dark and didn't look bored. Rather, the creature looked livid.

He stood frozen for a very long instant, glaring at Harry who gaped back, then screeched: “Wizard!”

It was said in such a disgusted and terrified tone, like a city housewife might scream 'Mouse!', that Harry felt offended.

Scowling, he pointed his left index finger at the creature and shouted right back, just as accusatory: “Vampire!”

Figures materialised out of the darkness, all pale, all unnaturally thin, all with dimly glowing eyes and bared fangs.

“Right!” grimaced Harry, not quite so loud anymore. “A _lot_ of vampires!”

The a realization made its way through his brain and his jaw dropped: “You feed on the tourists. You... you...  _you feed_ on the  _tourists!_ ”

The unnaturally pale faces were all hostile. One dark-haired female scoffed: “Why not? They're easy prey – readily available.”

A big male with an ugly nose cut her off, shouting angrily: “We don't want wizards here!”

The belligerent cry was instantly taken up by the others and Harry was bombarded by a cacophony of jeers.

Still a little stunned, he ran a nervous hand through his hair, incidentally baring his forehead to the creatures.

There was instant, unnerving silence.

Harry tensed, looking warily from one to the other, unable to figure out what was going on.

“You... are _Harry Potter!”_ whispered one young-looking male in shock.

In the unnatural silence, it reverberated like a loud cannonball.

“Ehm...” gulped Harry, suddenly nervous for a completely different reason. Certain vampire clans had supported Voldemort. Were these former followers out for revenge?

Or worse... fans?

Abruptly the dimly lit tunnel became a flurry of bewildering activities. One of the vampires disappeared off to somewhere, yelling something Harry couldn't quite catch; the others moved into small grouplets which formed and broke up with frenetic randomness, all the while chattering excitedly in Italian, too fast for the Translation Charm to pick up more than a word here and there. Since no combination of 'green mice sweating apple books in hope' could make any sense to Harry, he was left wondering and worrying, while the vampires casually ignored his existence.

Merlin, the headache he could feel coming...

Then the vampire who'd left returned and with him came an apparition that had Harry's eyes bulge out and his jaw drop to the ground.


	6. Red-faced

The... the being... was wearing more make-up on his pale triangular face than Harry had ever seen on Ginny's in her wildest nights out, and a black lace dress, long-sleeved, tightly fitted at the waist so as to underline a slender but muscular chest above a knee-length skirt that spilled out around the legs, longer in the back and terribly shorter in the front, showing off black stockings with a very delicate spiderweb pattern that culminated in elegant sandals with the tallest spike heels Harry had ever encountered.

He... she... it... well, it looked like a _he_ , and with how scantily he was covered, there was little left to doubt, but then again, it was dressed like a _she_ and moved like a _she_ and overall, Harry felt rather pathetically confused... 'he', anyway, was short, but with an unnerving sense of power in him that hung around him like an expensive perfume.

He... or she... held out a hand and Harry was momentarily confused about whether he was supposed to shake it or kiss it. He could feel his cheeks heat up with his embarrassment.

Of course, the sultry voice that addressed him didn't help matters any.

“Mr. Potter... such an _unexpected_ pleasure...”

Harry wondered in almost horrified fascination how the... the vampire... could make a perfectly standard and rather commonplace greeting conjure up such lewd and lustful overtones. It was embarrassing to the extreme for the poor wizard, who had generally considered a chaste kiss to his girlfriend in public the height of daring.

The creature seemed to realize this because the light in his... or her... eyes, became positively wicked.

“I have heard a great many... interesting things about you, Mr. Potter,” 'he' went on, affecting complete captivation with Harry's appearance. The wizard flinched and froze when 'she' sauntered up close to him and trailed an impossibly long, onyx black nail down his bare arm. Oh, how he wished he'd worn more than a t-shirt.

“I have _so_ wished to meet you,” 'she' said with a smouldering gaze that made Harry want to run – fast. “You should come down to my rooms so we can,” here the vampire bit 'his' lip and drew in a shaky breath, making 'his' eyes go wide with undisguised lust, “talk about it.”

Poor Harry promptly blushed all over again, mortified at the heavy innuendo the other's body language was throwing at him.

He didn't know what he stammered out, though he sincerely hoped it was a somewhat polite refusal.

“I _insist!”_ was the immediate reply, while burningly intense eyes lingered on his lower body before flicking over his lips with naked covetousness and only slowly raising to meet his terrified and chagrined gaze.

Harry didn't think he had ever been so embarrassed before. It wasn't that he was innocent, he protested weakly inside his mind, it was just that... well... this... it...

He didn't even know how to refer to his unexpected host in his mind – and if that wasn't a sign that he should stay the hell away, he didn't know what was.

He sighed. Well, she obviously wanted to be a female, given how she dressed and acted, so it was probably polite to refer to her as such.

Her long-nailed hands clamped on his arm with forceful strength and she proceeded to drag her captive through a series of tunnels, all the while remaining pressed far too close to him for Harry's comfort. His body was torn between embarrassment, arousal and horror. He seriously considered throwing a hex at the vampire and making a run for it, but somehow he didn't get around to it.

There was a sort of morbid curiosity in him towards the whole thing. Like when you meet something so awful you can't look away, such as a car wreck. Maybe it was just his usual idiotic temptation to flirt with risk. He cursed at himself in the privacy of his mind... but stayed.

The room she finally led him in was so clichéd Harry stopped short, fighting to stammer something intelligible out beyond his choking discomfiture.

It was a spacious bedroom done in black – many blacks, actually. Shiny black, charcoal black, pale black, carbon black, smoky black, ivory black, ebony, onyx. The walls, the hardwood floor, the drawn drapes against one wall, the bed.

Everything was blackness.

The only colour in the room was the silver chains and the silver-coloured implements hanging from the wall, which Harry did his damned best to ignore. Especially the chains dangling from the ceiling above the huge bed. Which he really, really didn't want to contemplate.

Maybe he should just turn his tail and run for it.

The vampire... lady... draped herself onto the four-posters, looking like a model from the _Badboy_ number Seamus had smuggled into the dorm once and Harry had been unable to look at out of embarrassment.

The glowing paleness of her skin in all that black was eerie, accentuating the darkness rather than relieving it. She looked up at him through her lashes, sensual, sultry. Harry instantly averted his eyes, mortified.

Mistake: his gaze caught the dull sheen of more chains dangling from the four posts, set in heavy permanent rings. It was official. He was a step away from panicking.

“Ah, Mr. Potter...” she sighed deeply. “I’m so glad I caught you.”

Caught, now wasn't that a nice way to describe the situation?

She stretched against the black bedspread with unnatural grace, settling her body against the pillows as if she felt utterly comfortable and regarding him hungrily through half-slitted lids.

Even through his haze of discomfiture, however, Harry could not find her in the least attractive, despite her voluptuous sensuality.

Maybe he would have been lost if she'd but made an actual effort, but as things stood, she came off as nothing but manipulative. He could see no real need or want in her eyes. This was a game to the creature.

He wondered what the stakes were.

Strangely enough, the rather cynical thought calmed him somewhat. Games, he understood. He generally couldn't play them very well, but interacting with the Press, goblin financial sharks, the Ministry, and assorted Slytherins had taught him a few things.

Not enough to win against a clearly experienced manipulator, of course... but enough to come up with a plan. Find out what she wants – if it's political, cross your fingers and hope for the best, if it's money, politely decline. And if she makes a move beyond teasing, hex and run.

Yeah, a workable plan.

He managed not to flinch when she raised her hand languidly, beckoning. He took an instinctual step back and held himself rigidly, forcing a completely fake smile: “Ah... no... thanks... I... I prefer to admire your beauty from” - as far away as I can get away with - “this wonderful perspective that really sets you off to great advantage.” There, nicely complimenting, perfectly hypocritical and shrewdly advantageous to his own goal of avoiding the creature at all costs. A Slytherin aristocrat couldn't have done better.

She laughed, throatily, and it jarred Harry's nerves.

“I was hoping taking you somewhere private would allow us to,” she did the lip sucking thing again, making Harry wonder snidely if she didn't have any more tricks, or he simply didn't rate them, “have that talk.”

He couldn't help wincing at the all too clear proposal and he caught the barest flick of a smug glance. Damn. She was toying with him. And he was losing any kind of contest she was having on – even those he was bound to have missed.

Irritation rose in him, fighting his embarrassment.

She lunged off the bed so suddenly he cried out and fell backwards on his butt. She was on him in an instant, pushing him on his back, long skirt bunched up over her hips – only Harry could now feel very clearly that they were a _his_ kind of hips – and smirking as 'she' trailed her deadly fingertips down his arms.

Gritting his teeth, he fought the urge to stick his wand between her eyes and fire some random curse.

“Please get off me, madam,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

She laughed again, like an adult amused at the antics of a silly boy, but got up with liquid grace and Harry was so relieved he nearly collapsed where he lay.

“There is no need to be so tense, _amico mio_ ,” she chuckled throatily. “I have no taste for violence. A simple 'no' is all it takes.”

She flicked a wink and a darting smile at him over her black lace covered, shapely shoulder. From the back, the dress dipped dangerously low, baring pale, smooth skin and curving barely over her bottom.

“Why don't you just tell me what you want, then, so I can say no and go home?” Harry spat petulantly, unnerved and irritated in equal measure.

She stilled, unnaturally unmoving, bare back to Harry and fingers clenched and twisted in the sides of her skirt.

“Well, if you want to be so uncouth,” she sniffed, clearly offended.

She turned to shoot him a scathing look. Harry gave her a flat one right back.

“I want a favour from you,” she bit out, then seemed to recover all her self-assurance. “Although of course, should you be interested in something _more_...”

She swayed her hips, advancing on him once again, and Harry hurriedly got up, terrified by the prospect of getting in contact with the weird vampire again.

“A-alright, then, let's hear it,” he said nervously. He tried hard not to flinch at the unsettling mixture of smug triumph and regretful disappointment in her eyes.

 

 

Two days later – days he'd spent keeping as far away from the vampire... lady? - as humanly possible, Harry stepped rigidly into a grand room, with the creature hanging on his stiff arm almost as if 'she' was draped on it instead of walking under her own power.

Somehow, the sex-crazy bitch had talked him into escorting 'her' to a grand event.

The only consolation was that he'd managed to bargain an introduction to the Certami out of her. They were the family he needed to get in touch with, that had supposedly held the two Death's Rooks for centuries; so when Harry had floo-called his best friends to check in as promised, he had been able to assure them with some honesty that he was making progress. After all, he had a lead.

“I'm staying at least until Saturday, anyway” he told them. “I, ehm, have a date with...” a sex-crazed power-hungry maniac with fangs who's about as trustworthy as a barracuda “...a charming lady I've met.”

“Why, Harry, you sly dog, you!” burst out Ron, laughing. “I knew Italy was the place to go!”

“Is she cute?” smirked Hermione, even as she smacked Ron upside the head.

Harry swallowed. 'Cute' was not a word that could be applied to her. Or anything in a fifty-feet area nearby her. “She's... intriguing,” he tried, hoping Hermione wouldn't insist for more.

“Well, I do hope you're planning on _having some fun_ ,” winked Ron leeringly.

Harry had a sudden image of chains and whips and leather whose details were fuzzy because he didn't really know enough about that stuff to conjure up a convincing scenario, but didn't lack evocative power for it.

In his mind, he flinched.

“Hum... sure thing, Ron...”

Now, with the lady in question moulded to his side, a refrain was going over and over in his mind: _never in a billion trillion years..._

The ballroom they were admitted to was huge and sparkling, a triumph of chandeliers and mirrors almost blinding enough to conceal the redundant cherubs and flowery baroque decorations.

Harry's smile was fixed and he was staring determinedly in front, no matter what, in the vague hope that the nightmare at his side would not be real if he could not see it, like Bogeymen everywhere.

It wasn't working.

The vampire was dressed outrageously in a daring, saucy, full-length leather dress, whose back closed – if the term could be employed at all – by means of some rather shocking hardware loops and a very long lace.

The outfit made Harry go red in embarrassment whenever he accidentally caught sight of it.

She kept flirting outrageously with everyone they met, male or female, young or old, gorgeous or ugly. Harry tried desperately to find enough fairness to appreciate her equanimity. He suspected he wouldn't find anything else to approve of in her.

Besides, she was amazingly apt at whispering sultry teasing nonsense in his ears and he couldn't just avoid listening. Or prevent his face from becoming a flaming red out of chocked embarrassment.

Harry fought the urge to fiddle with the uncomfortable, luxurious robes that were making him feel completely out of place and let her drag him here and there, meeting this bloke, chatting up that girl...

She looked mightily pleased with herself and was, for all appearances, having the time of her life.

To Harry, the soiree was a never-ending nightmare of handshakes and polite small talks that made him squirm with the awful sensation that his interlocutors were sharks slowly circling him with greed, and stuttered apologies for his companion's shameless behaviour, offered with the mortifying awareness that the blush he was sporting was threatening to darken his face permanently.

It was also unnerving how she was openly taking advantage of his fame with certain, selected individuals. After a while, Harry realized they were the only wizards present – not that they looked the part. Their expensive, designer suits were most definitely muggle in style and making.

In fact, they made observation on his robes, hinting that while eccentricity was expected and overlooked from _her_ companions, they knew in his case it wasn't a matter of 'expressing his true self' and he should really have learned something of how they did things in Bologna before turning up like a British pureblood...

Luckily Harry was too used to being behind the time to let it bother him. It had happened at every turn since he stepped foot into the wizarding world. Same with the blatant attempt at currying favours by throwing around his name, like the vampire lady was clearly doing. It made Harry uncomfortable and angry, but he didn't know how to disentangle himself. He felt like a prized possession she was showing off and could only hope that it wouldn't last long, or have too dire consequences.

Oh Merlin, please don't let this evening end up in the papers...

All in all, it was a long, dread-filled night before the vampire lady finally – finally! - got around to introduce “...conte Carlo Bandinello de' Certami, darling, _such_ a charming man...!”


	7. Through the Party

With the round belly  of a man of normal build who had too much rich food  and an almost bald, pink head, the jovial man projected an air of cheerful foolishness, but Harry caught the flash of intelligence in his eyes that belied his nonsensical words and the dangerous edge to his superficially merry grin.

This was a man who used appearances with the skill and ruthlessness of a soldier handling smoke screens.

He’d better stay on guard.

The impression was reinforced when he noticed how shamelessly amused the man was at his plight. Behind the polite words, he was silently snickering at Harry’s embarrassment over the leech making a spectacle of herself on his arm.

He also seemed to have a much clearer idea of what the Vampire Lady truly wanted with Harry, behind all her nasty teasing about getting him into her bed. Harry's eyes sharpened when he realized that hidden in his blandly spoken casual comments was a treasure wealth of information and he made a careful mental notes of the numerous pointed mentions of facts and names he was completely unaware of, but clearly shouldn't be.

From what he could gather, she had promised the same things to too many parties and now that it was time to deliver, she was in a bind. Harry reflected that such a situation could offer her numerous reasons to want his help. She might be after his influence over the wizarding world to get herself out of paying up. She might be after his reputation as Slayer of the Dark Lord to intimidate her creditors. She might be after his power outright, hoping to use him as her shield or weapon, or both.

Any and all were likely – any and all were bothersome.

He wished he could work out why the Conte was letting him figure all this out. He knew he wouldn't guess however.

The man was a consummate politician and the quintessential charmer, a talent that was almost scary to Harry.

He suspected that Mr. Certami was the kind of politician who could wheedle money out of the rich elite and gather consensus from the dissatisfied masses with equal ease. A pleasant, bland presence carefully observing and pouncing instantly on every little weakness while putting everyone at ease with jovial laughters and engaging manners: velvety gloves that stroked his victims gently, all the better to conceal the sharp glass blades.

The way he backed his 'date' in a corner, intimidated her and angered her without once giving her any hook to claim offence, and finally got rid of her very elegantly, pawning her off to an unsuspecting victim – and didn't Harry's visible relief amuse him! - was a masterwork.

All in all, Harry was completely outclassed. And knew it.

Well, this, too, was a rather familiar feeling. He had been rather outclassed in his confrontation with Voldemort too. Hadn't stopped him, had it?

While the man piloted him through the room - in an apparently random walk that Harry was guessing was aimed at reaching the buffet table, but that seemed to be manoeuvring through several small groups of people in a not very random way at all - Harry tried to keep his thoughts straight, his goal in mind, his ears perked for any sign of danger and at the same time, come up with a plan to deal with his new companion.

Talk about impossible tasks.

Not only this was not, admittedly, his cup of tea, but he was also being artfully distracted by the lively commentary the Conte was regaling him with.

The whirlwind of introductions the Vampire Lady had thrown at him had been nothing more than a blur in his poor head, but now names were being matched to faces – certain names, certain faces only – with apparent ease and the fascinating tidbits his companion offered were building up a clear and engaging picture in Harry's mind of the room and its occupants. If it wasn't for the uncomfortable sensation that it was a picture craftily arranged and tailored by the Conte for his own as-yet-unknown goals, Harry would have been profoundly grateful.

“... il Signor Aldobrandi and Doctor Davia, there in the corner.” Mr. Certami's voice held just enough of a hint of complicity to keep Harry's attention engaged, mostly in spite of himself. “Their families cordially detest each other, you see, have since forever, so of course they are always, _always,_ viciously polite to one another...”

That made no sense – and Harry blurted it out, to his chagrin.

Even as he reddened and swore to himself to keep his mouth shut at all cost, however, the Conte just laughed charmingly: “...It's the civilized way, is it no?... smiling chillingly and inquiring icily after each other's health instead of clubbing each other over the head...”

“Or stabbing each other in the back?” tried Harry cautiously, half-hoping for a laugh that would mark his question as a joke. 

“Oh, that happens, but never in public of course. That would be an unforgivable lack of style!”

Right.

“... la Signora Baldi and la Signora Amadori... watch how they're carefully trying to avoid one another... Lady Amadori is having an affair with Mr. Baldi, you see... and of course, the scorned wife knows and is furious, but she can't do much about it since she herself is involved with a very unsuitable young man...”

That was way too much information for Harry, who was usually oblivious even to his own friends' dating ups and downs.

“...the Malatesta and the Della Francesca, legendary feud that one... of course, neither family remembers what event in history has caused the rift in the first place, but they will swear it's important, obviously, otherwise they wouldn't still going on about it, would they?...”

Human nature in a nutshell.

“...oh, dear, Davia's daughter has come and I just bet... yes, there, by the buffet, can you see the blond man? That's Antonio Dal Lino, excellent lawyer, of course, and very wealthy, but I really don't know why people continue to invite them to the same social events, it's a well-known fact that whenever they are forced together they invariably – oh, Lady Vitali!” Harry's improvised chaperon turned suddenly to call out to an acquaintance, for all appearances forgetting whatever he was chatting about.

Harry half-grumbled in his mind – he'd been curious about this latest anecdote, even if he wouldn't have admitted so for anything.

A brisk lady in a magnificent purple dress was advancing across the ballroom floor, her smile travelling in front of her.

“Conte Certami!” she said, proffering a hand with the air of someone who's waited all her life for just the chance of smiling at the portly man in front of her. It set Harry's teeth on edge at once. 

“ _Cara signora!_ You look truly splendid tonight! Heliotrope suits your beauty like no other colour!” 

Harry briefly lost track of the conversation in favour of pondering the mystery of a man who would know what colour 'heliotrope' was, then was jolted back to the here-and-now when he heard: “...May I introduce Mr. Harry Potter?”

Promptly going into social automatic pilot, Harry bowed stiffly over the jewelled hand the woman was holding out to him imperiously and mumbled something that might have been taken to mean he was charmed. She certainly decided to interpret it so, anyway, which was probably for the best.

“Mr. Potter, it's such a pleasure to meet you! I hear you have been doing sterling work defending us from the darkness!”

Harry met her radiant smile with a rather fixed one of his own and hoped she would be satisfied with it.

“And what do you think of this little get-together, then? Do not spare me your critics, now!” she joked coyly.

“Er... everything's lovely,” tried Harry, belatedly wondering if this was, perhaps, their host – had the Vampire Lady even mentioned who was giving this party? Would he have recognized the name even if she had? He blinked, a little lost, as the woman in purple – no, heliotrope, which was apparently a shade of purple, or maybe just a fancy name for it – batted huge black eyes at him, clearly expecting more: “Er... yeah... I, err, I'm really enjoying myself,” he said a little desperately, hoping against hope that it wouldn't be too obvious that he was lying through his teeth.

“I'm sure you are,” she said, tapping him lightly with her fan. “Now, I mustn't monopolize you, but I really must drag you away to talk to some of my friends.”

She took him by an unresisting arm and piloted him to the buffet table. He let her, morosely, and bowed stiffly to 'dearest Annamaria' – a short, plump woman with dark blond hair whose attention seemed fully engaged by the prawn and kiwi éclairs, in spite of their colour, which Harry found rather off-putting – and to 'dearest Antonio' – who was very, very interested in milk cows, a topic about which Harry knew less than about city planning for Roma, which the group next to them was going on about, loudly – and to 'dearest Serena and dearest Marco' – who apparently had come all the way from Venice and politely pretended to ignore his borderline sarcastic attempt at introducing Mayan ceramics in the conversation – and to 'dearest Silvia' and 'dearest Giorgio' and 'dearest Elisa' – or was her name Enrica? Not that it mattered any to him.

At last the lady who, judging by the repeated compliments she kept receiving about smooth organization and original décor, was indeed their host, was distracted enough by another 'dearest someone' coming up to her that Harry could make a desperate bid for freedom: by his cursed luck, however, he was intercepted by an elderly gentleman with thick glasses and a wheezy voice, who mistook him for his own grandson and forced him to endure a lengthy complaint about the dreadfulness of being expected to talk to 'that damn stuck-up Giorgio, and over some rather inferior wine, too'.

He was saved by the return of the lady in purple – Ventali? Venturi? - who swept him up and demanded to know whether he'd ever tasted anything as good as the pork and pineapple appetizers, though thankfully she didn't look interested in his answer, while she piloted him across the floor and towards a set of narrow double doors to the side.

“Err... Madam...” Harry started to say, an undefined sense of dread mounting in his belly as they neared their destination – a destination that was manifestly off-limits to guests. Casting a glance around, however, showed him no way of escape without being impolite. He tried offering a token resistance to her not-quite-dragging anyway.

“Not to worry, dearest, I have everything well in hand!” she said, giving him such a radiant smile that it took him a few moments to get her actual words – and by then, she'd already opened the narrow, lacquered white doors and not-quite-pushed him inside a small, dim sitting room.

Conte Certami was suddenly at her side, kissing her hand with an extravagant compliment and passing into the room as well.

She laughed in apparent delight, though Harry couldn't figure out what she might be so happy about: “There, now, _miei cari_ , I shall make sure nobody disturbs your tête-à-tête!”

She gave them a conspiratorial wink and closed the double doors with a wide gesture, extending her arms gracefully and making her gown flow around her just so as she bent forward and then retracted pulling the doors, in a move calculated to show off a lot more cleavage – and a lot more breast – than the dress ought to have made possible, in Harry's embarrassed opinion.

And then the sounds of the party were muffled and he was alone with the Conte Certami.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to you if you recognize which Terry Pratchett's characters have slipped into the party!


	8. Secret Agendas

In an effort to avoid fidgeting, Harry tried to examine the room.

It was not very large, with an overall graceful appearance and very elegantly furnished; everywhere he could spot legs terminating in carved drake feet, heavily embroidered fabrics and rich, dark woods and though Harry would have been the first to admit ignorance as to styles of furniture, he knew quality when he saw it.

A few fiddle-back chairs were lined against the walls, but his companion gestured invitingly to the padded wing chairs in the middle of the small room, whose upholstery, Harry really wasn't surprised to notice, matched the wallpaper's design with refined elegance.

The Conte was expertly uncorking a bottle of dark, thick glass with straight sides and a pronounced punt.

“Pignoletto,” Certami explained kindly. “It's one of the best wines produced here in the Colli Bolognesi. Have you visited our beautiful hills yet? No? That's a pity. You really should: the landscape is definitely worth the trip. As is the food!” He winked charmingly.

He poured for both of them and held out to Harry a stem glass of a rich, straw yellow wine, with a fresh, inviting aroma that made Harry think of pears.

“Try it. I'm sure you'll love it.”

Harry regarded the glass uncertainly.

“Plinio il Vecchio – have you read any of his writings? The _Naturalis Historia_ , perhaps? No? Oh, well. He describes a wine he calls 'Pinus Laetus': proof that the Pignoletto has as long and honoured a history as Italy itself,” chatted the Conte amiably while taking a seat. “Of course, Plinio criticized it for being 'not sweet enough to be good', but after all, it is known that ancient Romans preferred their wine as sweet as honey, which makes no sense to the modern man. I for one quite like its dry, harmonious taste and the fruity finish.”

Grateful to have a knowledgeable guide to help him savour it, Harry willingly tasted the cool wine and had to admit that it was good. Delicate and light, it seemed absolutely perfect for the small snacks of boiled eggs, of which a plate was so conveniently present on a nearby small table; whatever sauce had replaced the red, it was delicious.

He really wished he could stamp down his nervousness enough to enjoy it more.

“And how do you like the party?” asked his companion, evidently choosing to go through some more pleasantries rather than getting his point across. Either he knew how unsettled it was making Harry feel... or he was just that much of a politician.

“Huh...” Harry wavered, feeling like a deer in headlights. He was pretty sure any lie would be spotted easily: the question was, would the Conte let him get away with it? He tried to be dispassionate: “These things aren't really my cup of tea.”

The man looked at him with good-natured inquisitiveness and Harry felt somewhat compelled to explain: “Too much politics.” And then he grimaced, because how naïve did that make him sound?

The man didn't seem to take any offence: “Ha Ha! You get used to it. These are the best occasions to weave intrigue, after all...”

“I'm surprised you got us away. And this not even your own house,” Harry tried, feeling uncertain and hating it.

Certami waved a hand nonchalantly: “When you've been to a thousand of these, you learn to carve space for yourself.” He settled himself more comfortably in his chair, smiling at Harry warmly.

“I can't imagine going to so many uncomfortable parties,” shivered Harry quite honestly. “Not if you aren't under contract at least.”

The Conte chuckled easily: “Politicians will put themselves through more boring functions for the betterment of their own careers than any normal person would be willing to suffer."

Harry gave him a considering look: “And you're a politician,” he said carefully.

Another smile, only just sharper: “Indeed, Mr. Potter. Indeed.”

Hoping this could be his opening to finally move this exhausting dance along, Harry took a deep breath and plunged: “Which means you want something from me,” he said pointedly.

It didn't work. The man was clearly too consummate to be steered. “Don't we all?” he just said.

Harry sighed deeply, rubbing his face with a hand. He was beyond tired. He didn't stand a chance to gain any kind of upper hand and knew it and he wondered whether he should just give up entirely and apparate back to the hotel. Or all the way to England.

“Come now,” said the Conte, suddenly full of warm concern. “I know these soirées are terribly tiring, but--”

“What is tiring,” interrupted Harry with icy irritation, “is being led by the nose by a bunch of people who spend all their time beating around the bush because they seem to think being straightforward would kill them!”

“It very well might,” retorted his companion just as icily.

That shut Harry up.

“I'm sorry,” he said meekly after a while. “Really, I appreciate how you helped me with the Vampire... err... Lady...?”

He sort of wished it hadn't come out sounding so much like a question. But since it had, he also hoped it would be answered.

No such luck: “I'm glad you found me useful,” was all the man commented, still standoffish.

Harry let his eyes fix on the bat wing shaped drawer pulls of the corner cupboard, feeling increasingly nervous.

“Why?” he blurted out when he couldn't stand it anymore.

He was treated to a markedly fake look of stupor: “Can't I be glad I did you a service?”

“No, I mean, why did you help?”

The Conte took a careful sip of his white wine.

“I merely think it a good policy to help out potential allies. After all, considering the situation, I'm sure we could...” He gestured slightly with his almost empty glass and let his voice trail off, as if the continuation of the sentence was so predictable that he didn't need to voice it.

It wasn't.

Seeing the incomprehension in Harry's green eyes, he sighed deeply and then commented, half-kindly half-patronizingly: “You accused me of being a politician, but you really aren't much of one, are you?”

“I'm not a politician at all,” replied Harry stiffly.

“You'll have to learn, if you want to make it in our fair city. Our society is almost entirely about politics. I could help you with that.”

Harry felt genuinely bewildered. “Hum... I'm not going to be in Bologna for long,” he said in some confusion.

That gave the Conte pause. He stared in honest surprise: “You mean it is not your intention to move here?”

“What?” Harry's eyes went wide. “No! I don't... where did you even get that idea?”

“You don't?” he asked, appearing genuinely surprised. “But then, why are you here?”

Harry tensed. Something told him it would be a very bad idea to tell this particular man exactly what he wanted. He tried to deflect: “Is this a tricky question?” he asked nervously.

“There's nothing in Bologna that would interest a wizard.”

“That's not true! There's plenty to see – the Towers and Sala Borsa and the mortadella and!...”

“You wish me to believe you came here for sightseeing?” asked Certami, heavy with disbelief.

“There's plenty of tourists here!” protested Harry, feeling a little cornered.

“Ah, but they're Muggles, my young friend. Muggles truly love Bologna... wizards, however, not so much. And you didn't come as a Muggle, did you? When the Portal was triggered, we naturally thought...” he shrugged elegantly.

Of course the magical Portal system was monitored. Of course. Just how stupid was he, for not figuring this out on his own? Harry berated himself silently.

“It didn't occur to me to travel as a Muggle,” he said quite honestly. “I found the Portal system so brilliant and it saves so much time and... oh... I don't know. I didn't expect... this!” he gestured a little wildly.

How could he have thought simply stepping through a magical threshold could plunge him into such a political tangle?

“Well, this certainly changes things,” commented the Conte Certami, still looking slightly baffled – and perhaps a little miffed.

“Would you want me to move here?” asked Harry curiously. Not that he had any intention of doing so, of course, but he was intrigued by how far the locals' speculations seemed to have carried them.

The Conte waved the question away nonchalantly. “I have no particular preference on the matter, but if you did move here, I would prefer to be the one to introduce you to our society. I'm sure you understand.”

Harry fought not to grimace openly. Yes, he did understand. The big names back in England were the same after all – he could easily see the Greengrasses or the MacLaggens being utterly determined that the prestige of introducing someone into their circle should go to them and no one else, especially not their age-old rivals. Why should Italy be any different?

He also understood, by the subtle changes in the politician's body language, that the man felt a lot less need to be pleasing towards him now. He was still very polite, but much less charming. Harry would have felt offended if he wasn't almost relieved.

“Well, I must admit this conversation went very differently than what I was expecting...” started Certami.

Feeling that the conversation was quickly being drawn to a close, Harry blurted out: “Can I ask...?”

“Yes?”

He hesitated only an instant: he really did want to know. “About the Vampire Lady...”

“Ah, yes. Regrettable situation she finds herself in. She promised a lot... too much, one could say, and to too many people. Things she is hard pressed to deliver. All for her silly little crusade... Now people are coming to her door to collect and she feels threatened. No doubt your influence would boost her chances of retaining power immensely.”

“I gathered that much from your hints. And thank you again. You didn't have to... You could have left me to flounder.”

“Ah, but that would have been rude.”

“Yeah right. Wait... who's she going to turn to for help now that I've escaped her?”

A smile.

Ah.

Harry shook his head with reluctant admiration.

He finished his wine and asked, almost as an afterthought: “What crusade?”

The Conte shrugged. “Giustizia e Libertà. Such resolute radicals, they were behind a number of rallies in the last few years. Surely you know about it?”

Harry tried hard to look like he did.

It did not fool Certami.

“Justice and Freedom – it's her political party,” he explained, a little archly. “She wants equal rights for her vampires... and everybody else while she's at it. Orchi, Anguane, Centauri... every magical being of the region.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing, of course. In theory. Very admirable fight. Ethically sound. Not very politically-savvy.” Certami smiled without warmth.

Harry narrowed his eyes, irritated by the attitude. “If you think it's the right thing to do, then why don't you support her cause?” he asked coldly.

“Because it would be a political suicide, and I am no fool.”

At his incredulous look, the politician added gently: “People are increasingly worried by the presence of these non-human rights movements. They want their leaders to put a stop to the demonstrations, not to endorse them.”

Harry bristled: “Well, tough! The best way to stop the demonstrations would be to do the right thing anyway. I think it's way past time that the rights of magical beings be recognized!”

The Conte regarded him indulgently: “You'll hear no argument from me, Mr. Potter. As I said, it's very admirable. I am merely aware of how... premature, such a goal is in the present political climate.”

Harry stood up, knowing he didn't have the eloquence to argue his point, but not willing to stay and listen to the man any longer.

“If it makes you feel better, I firmly believe we'll get there, eventually. Equal rights are the only true option for a decent society in the future,” added the Conte. “However, I sincerely doubt such a goal will be reached during my lifetime. My daughter's, perhaps... Speaking of whom,” he got up too, ratcheting up the charm once more. “I would dearly love to introduce my sweet Lorena to you. Are you leaving soon?”

“Perhaps I'll take the time to visit the hills, as you recommended.”

“You do that. In fact, do come for lunch tomorrow – no more politics, I promise!” He laughed companionably. “I'll talk my daughter into accompanying you. She knows the area like no one else, she'll be a delightful guide. A companion much more to your tastes than I was, I've no doubt! She's just about your age, you know... and very beautiful, although of course, I'm required to say so, being her father. Mind you, my little Giorgia is even more beautiful; but she's barely seventeen. Lorena will be better suited to you, I imagine. Yes, I rather think you might get along well...”

Harry very nearly groaned. He was no longer a political asset... but had apparently been shifted into 'potential son-in-law' category!

Then again, it wasn't exactly a new role for him and maybe he would be better able to make progress on his own task if he was sort-of welcome in the family. So he accepted to meet the beautiful Lorena with more enthusiasm than he really felt.

The Conte excused himself to go appraise their gracious host of the somewhat changed situation and Harry was pounced upon as soon as he left.

“You abandoned me! All alone and friendless in a hostile crowd!” his partner for the evening complained with an exaggerated pout. “Such poor manners, my dear. Tsk, tsk! And the society here is so dreadfully drab! You shall have to make it up to me,” she finished, suddenly much more cheerful.

Harry stumbled on his own feet. “Err...”

“Oh, don't worry,” she purred right in his ear. “I will make it a very _pleasurable_ penance... I promise!”

Scathingly, Harry retorted: “You're not exactly known for keeping promises, _my dear.”_

She stopped short, glaring nastily at him: “You've been listening to these morons,” she accused. “ _Maledetti bastardi_ , the lot of them. You can't listen to them, Harry, they have it in for me! They think I'm a pretentious radical, a foolish extremist! They want nothing more than to discredit me!”

“Well, if the shoe fits,” he teased, but seeing the anger in her eyes, he hastily added: “I wish you'd told me about your political goals. What you're doing is brilliant. I might have been able to help, instead of just being embarrassed.”

She snorted: “A wizard, bothering to help non-humans? That'll be the day.” But she looked slightly appeased.

Harry frowned. “I would!” he protested earnestly.

She shrugged. “It matters not. If you're sincere... that might even be worse. All these _cretini_ want is an excuse to silence me. Your influence with them will vanish if you openly support me.”

She was enraged and dismissive, but underneath it all there was real anxiousness and that got to Harry. He also felt a lot more sympathy for her, now, and genuine regret that he couldn't help her after all.

He sighed: “Have you considered striking an alliance with Certami? He doesn't seem too bad. Believes in your cause, at least a little. And he'd certainly be able to sort out your mess.”

“In exchange for what?” she spat, suddenly spiteful. She squeezed his arm so tightly, plunging her long nails into his skin, that Harry was surprised she wasn't drawing blood. “He would have me hand over my people to his every whim! That's all he does, use and discard people for his own convenience. I'm supposed to protect them, how can you ask me to throw them to his non-existent mercy?”

Moved by the unexpected vehemence and sense of responsibility of the Vampire Lady, Harry squeezed her hand, for the first time touching her willingly.

“Then find something worthwhile to negotiate with. Something that'll give you a strong enough bargaining position. And none of your empty promises. That's what got you in this mess in the first place! Something tangible. Something concrete! Surely there's something you can get, that he might need?”

She gave him a very long, inscrutable look, that slowly morphed from upset to pitying to thoughtful to appreciative.

“Perhaps I should go to Milano in a few days. It is the last Sunday of the month, the Mercato dei Navigli is taking place. You never know what you might... retrieve, there,” she mused out of the blue. “Young girls can do such foolish things. Especially if sexy older men convince them they're doing it for love... After all, what's a little theft within the family? And eloping is so romantic – that is, if the man in question doesn't prove to be a _vigliacco_...”

Harry was thoroughly confused. Was she talking about herself? But surely she'd been a young boy? And... theft? Had she just confessed... something? Was he just confusing himself?

He did not have a chance to ask before she was kissing his cheek affectionately and vanishing in the night.


	9. An Unexpected Twist

When Harry arrived at the correct address the next day – barely registering the fact that the palace was obviously much bigger inside than out – the place was in an uproar.

People were running around like headless chickens, with grim or worried faces paler than would be healthy. Harry had the vaguely disconcerting impression that there weren't all that many of them, after all, yet between their harried hurrying about and the narrow rooms and corridors, they gave the idea of being legions.

Having been ignored and hastily brushed off by the first two he tried to stop and ask directions from, he proceeded to smother the inner voice telling him he should really go because this was clearly not a good time and he should come back some other time; instead, he ventured in on his own – blithely and rudely and also sort of feeling like an eleven-year-old exploring a magic castle again.

The palace reminded him of a Hogwarts on a very small scale, with classical statues in place of armours and baroque frescos instead of moving paintings, but with the same indefinable air of a half-sentient maze. Even being undeniably tiny in comparison to the beloved castle of his schooling, it was impressive.

He remembered the Twins telling him that the trick to infiltrating a place undisturbed was to act as if he belonged: well, it worked. He adopted a worried frown and pretended to know exactly where he was going and why, and nobody stopped him. Or even spared him a glance.

The downside was, of course, that he couldn’t stop anyone to ask anything from, so he still didn't know what was going on.

He blundered through various rooms decorated with frescos and tapestries, goggling at the numerous sculptures (a few of which winked or leered at him as he passed); when he went down narrow stairs and unexpectedly found himself in a vast kitchen, he exchanged a grim, knowing look with a cook in a white hat (all the while wondering what it was that they 'knew'), grabbed a random container and while he was at it, snatched some sesame bread-sticks too and moved on.

Finally, after climbing a different – grander – staircase and finding himself back on the ground floor, he stumbled upon a harried woman in a maid's outfit, who mistook him for a doctor they were apparently expecting and quickly pushed him into a sitting room where indigo chintz had a rather prominent role.

A tall, stern-looking, middle-aged woman with a severe chestnut bun made stricter by her tailored suit, nailed him with an anguished glare as soon as he stepped in; she was standing, hovering really, over a tall black-haired lady, who was collapsed elegantly over an armchair.

The prone woman was in tears.

Instinct taking over, Harry hurried to her side, wishing to help, completely forgetting he wasn't supposed to be there.

“Who are you? Where's Dottor Linardi?” questioned her companion in agitation.

Harry ignored her: “Are you hurt, madam? Do you need assistance... Can I get you anything?”

She regarded him in surprise and hesitance, but perhaps sensing his sincerity, did not react badly to his presence.

“No, no, I thank you,” she said, making a visible effort to compose herself. “I beg your pardon, but I'm afraid I don't recognize you...”

“Ah! No, I'm sorry, I'm--” stammered Harry. “Conte Certami invited me to lunch – I'm-- I'm Harry Potter, madam.”

“Oh!” she tried to straighten herself and quickly dabbed at her eyes with a delicate handkerchief. “Oh, I'm so sorry. Yes, of course, my husband mentioned...”

Despite her being clearly caught off-guard and probably put-off by his presence, she rose to the occasion and introduced herself and her companion, a Mrs. Degli Espositi, with grace and admirable lack of remonstrance. She practically made Harry feel welcome, in spite of how obvious it was that he was not, not in whatever terrible situation they found themselves in.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter, this is really just a bad moment,” she said with charming sincerity. “Perhaps you could be so kind as to accept another invitation for the lunch you were promised? Some time from now, I'm afraid we won't be able to entertain again very soon...”

She tried to smile tremulously but the depth of anguish in her black eyes betrayed her state of turmoil.

Harry was enchanted. The Contessa was a dream of elegance and intelligence. Even tearful and pale with worry, she filled him with admiration: she was not traditionally beautiful, perhaps, but she was made so by her genteel countenance and the light of intelligence and compassion shining in her eyes.

“Please, madam, don't worry about me. Are you sure there is nothing I can do to help?”

“Unless you're an experienced investigator, I doubt it,” sniffed her stern companion.

Harry startled, looking up at her, and blurted out rather rudely: “Just what is it that's happened?”

A barely stifled sob wracked the Contessa and Mrs. Degli Espositi frowned in impotent rage and worry.

“Giorgia... my little Giorgia... Gone – vanished in the night! Oh, my poor, foolish girl...!” Quite clearly too worried and distracted to think straight, Lady Certami collapsed once more against the armchair.

“We found a note,” elaborated the sour-looking Mrs. Degli Espositi, that was obviously a close friend, pacing slightly and fairly vibrating with indignation, “but, oh! It was such nonsense! Blabbing about love, as if she could know anything about it, at her age.” She pursed her lips disapprovingly. “It's all that Foscarini's fault, Agnese, mark my word. Good for nothing scoundrel! Always hovering around younger girls, the disgusting mongrel. We should never have let him in this house.”

The Contessa was shaking her head sadly: “I should have watched over her better, Cristina. This is all my fault. Oh, I'm a terrible mother!”

“Don't be ridiculous!”

“He's eighteen years older than her!” wailed the Contessa, making Harry grimace in disgust. What kind of man went for a girl less than half his age?

“Mamma, I've checked with security again and they say-- oh!”

A young woman in her early twenties had entered the room and stopped short upon catching sight of him. She was tall and tanned, with beautiful cheekbones and truly gorgeous black hair: she clearly favoured the Conte in looks and with a slight start, Harry realized that this had to be Lorena, the young woman he'd been invited to meet. He had to hand it to the man: his daughter was, indeed, beautiful.

The one who'd gone missing was, clearly, her younger sister and he frowned as he stepped back and turned to the newcomer, because something was nagging at him about this whole thing.

“Lori!” cried the Contessa raising her arms to her daughter, who quickly crossed the room to embrace her; she was still regarding Harry with a puzzled frown, however.

Embarrassed, the wizard shifted from foot to foot: “Err... I'm Harry. Harry Potter,” he said lamely.

“Oh!” Lorena's eyes went wide, but she recovered quickly. “Well, huh. Be welcome in our home,” she said uncertainly.

“I'm very sorry about your sister,” he said awkwardly.

That seemed to shake her out of her puzzlement and the priority crisis reaffirmed itself: “Mamma, security says the Rooks are missing.”

Harry's eyes went wide and he had to force himself not to react openly.

The Contessa and her stern friend gasped in unison. “Oh, Giorgia, what have you done!...” the Lady whispered in horrified realization.

The stern friend, Mrs. Degli Espositi, closed her eyes, as if in pain: “So this is what that Foscarini was truly after. Poor, silly girl. We can only hope his manipulations will leave her no worse than broken-hearted...”

The Contessa gasped a sob.

“Rooks?” ventured Harry carefully – having a good idea of what this was about, but needing to be sure.

It was Lorena who answered soberly: “The Certami family's greatest treasure.” There was disgust in her tone as she added: “That foolish brat must delude herself that she can sell them to keep herself and that leech of hers...”

“Lori!”

“No, mamma! She's always been a self-serving, spoilt brat.”

Harry winced, hearing a good dose of jealousy in her tone.

“Now she's gone and eloped with a cad and Lord knows if we'll get her back, or in what state, and do you think she's sparing half a thought for any of us? She's a selfish little--”

“That is quite enough!” interrupted the Contessa with tears in her voice, but a strong tone. “She is still your sister. And she's very young... this is less her fault than ours...”

Something clicked in Harry's mind. _Young girls will do foolish things for sexy older men... a little theft in the family..._

That's what the wretched vampire was talking about!

Harry felt indignation swell within him. It was all well and good to play games with other political players, but by the sound of it, the girl was in real danger: at the very least, she'd put herself in the hands of a pervert.

As important as her fight for equal rights was, the idea that she would gain advantage gambling on an innocent's skin rubbed Harry completely the wrong way.

He opened his mouth to tell them about Milano – it might be nothing, but that vampire had made a point to mention it and it could turn out to be the lead they needed: he wanted to be of use if he could – but the Conte chose that moment to barge into the room, looking wrecked with fury and grief. He started when he caught sight of Harry.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded rudely.

“Carlo, any news?” asked the Contessa anxiously, but she was ignored. Her husband was busy glaring at Harry.

“I came for lunch,” said the British wizard, patiently. “Then I heard about your daughter...”

“You should have left!” raged Certami. “You must know your presence is not wanted at such a time. Or are you too stupid to realize it?”

Not taking offence, Harry offered: “Is there nothing I can do to help?”

“Help! That worthless bastard seduced my baby, lured her away from her family! And convinced her to steal our most precious heirlooms to boot! What do you think you can _help_ with?”

His raging was interrupted by a worried yet kind voice: “Let it go, _amore_. Mr. Potter is just being compassionate. He has nothing to do with this disaster, do not take your fury out on him!”

Raising from her seat with her daughter's help, the Contessa moved to embrace her husband and started murmuring softly to him. Her gentle but firm insistence calmed the Conte considerably.

Harry admired the way she moved and talked; how she held herself together, despite the tear tracks upon her cheek, and did her best to comfort and support her loved ones at all times.

Certami wound his arms around her and held her tightly, burying his face in her shoulder.

Some part of Harry thought that he wasn't surprised that a man of the Conte's intellect had snatched such a companion for himself. Few others would have been worthy of her. That there seemed to be genuine affection between them raised his opinion of both even more and perhaps that was what pushed him to make the offer.

“Do you want me to track her down?”

Both parents stared at him in shock.


	10. A little theft

 Before they could reply to his impulsive offer, two men came into the room in a hurry.

“Any word...?”

The rising hope was dashed at once: “No, sir, but we have the preliminary forensic results.”

They did not look like Aurors, their high quality suits and almost invisible wand holsters and gun holsters speaking of private security, and Harry inwardly pursed his lips, annoyed that the local law enforcement hadn't been called.

They motioned for the Conte to follow them and the women went with him.

Harry tagged along. No-one seemed to mind; or else they'd just forgotten him entirely.

The two men were relating details in a hurried but precise manner: “Ward records show two subsequent accesses to the safe. The first one forty-two minutes after midnight; it did not trigger any alert, as the blood check confirmed Miss Giorgia's authentication. The Rooks were taken from the safe for a total of 6.34 minutes, well below the ten-minutes limit. They were then replaced and the safe closed.”

By this point they'd reached the Conte's study, a spacious room with bookshelves-covered walls and a big, imposing desk right in the middle. The furniture was in slight disarray and two more people in the same private security uniform were waving their wands about, still finishing up their checks.

One of them nodded to the two who were leading the family and took over briskly: “Fingertips analysis confirms Miss Giorgia's presence and integrating the information from the ward records, we are reasonably sure that she took the Rooks from the safe, but also put them back.”

The Conte sighed in relief: “She's not completely lost, then.”

“Sir, might I ask...?” the stiff security expert frowned at the assemblage of people in the room, disapproving.

“Lorena, go back...” ordered the Conte distractedly.

“What? No! I want to hear!”

“Cristina, take her--”

“No! I'm not some little doll you have to protect!” The young woman pushed herself forward, a forbidding scowl on her beautiful face. “Go on with your report!” she ordered to the frowning security guard.

Certami sighed despondently. His daughter had a stubborn tilt of her chin that he obviously recognized. He glanced at his wife and didn't even try there – a mere narrowing of her eyes told him clearly that she wouldn't budge.

Harry, who'd hung back on the doorstep, was ignored. So was Mrs. Degli Espositi, who was keeping carefully quiet and out of the way. It lowered his opinion of the security firm even more.

At least they were going about processing the scene properly; he'd done enough forensic prelims during training to follow what spells had been used and approve of their thoroughness.

He was intrigued to see they were mixing in muggle methods too. No one in England had ever thought of using fingertips dusting and collecting samples for later analysis; or at least, no one he knew.

The investigators were still reporting: “The safe was accessed again at thirteen past one a.m. The ward was once again bypassed, however there is no clear record of who crossed the ward – the trace seems to indicate Miss Giorgia once more, but it is fainter than it should be, had she been the one to offer her blood for authentication.”

“We hypothesize that a sample of her blood was used, but that she was not in presence,” interjected a very thin man in a clinical tone. “Most likely it's a variation of the Sanguiniar Potion. We shall know more once this has been analysed and identified.”

He held up a vial containing a pinkish, viscous liquid which, Harry gathered, he'd scoped up from the surface of the safe – a way of fooling the wards he'd never heard of before, but that they seemed to consider fairly expected.

“How could she be so stupid as to give her blood away?” asked Lorena incredulously. “It wouldn't have worked if he'd taken it by force, would it?”

“No,” confirmed the Conte with clenched teeth.

“Oh, Carlo, haven't we taught her the dangers of such foolishness?” bemoaned the Contessa.

“Why didn't the alarm start blaring, though?” demanded to know Lorena. “Shouldn't it have been triggered as soon as the Rooks were missing for longer than ten minutes?”

The security experts fidgeted, looking embarrassed. “It... did,” one of them admitted sheepishly. “The thief used a Silencing Charm to render it useless.”

“An oversight that will be dealt with at once,” assured another hurriedly.

Lorena and Lady Certami were both staring incredulously.

“I'll find a better security service when this is over,” the Conte said impatiently, brushing off the careless mistake. “Right now, Giorgia is the only thing that matters. We must find her,” he said with force, his face a dark thunderstorm of emotions. “I will start the Liberinvenire Ritual at once.”

He made to march off and found himself face to face with Harry.

“What are you doing here?” demanded the Conte once more, looking shocked and furious.

Harry met his eyes calmly: “I told you, I wish to help. She's just a kid... another wand can't be too much.”

Lady Certami pressed her hand on her husband's arm; he quieted, but fumed silently.

“We're very grateful for your support, Mr. Potter, however I hope you will not be offended if I doubt you can be of much assistance in the search...” she said with graceful dignity.

Harry smiled slightly: “I did train as an Auror, madam. Speaking of which, I notice they haven't been notified?”

Lorena snorted: “What good would it do?”

“The police has enough to concern itself with. We have, of course, denounced her disappearance, and as she's a minor, it will be a priority, however when a priority is just one of a far too long list... I doubt they will have much success.”

“Well, all the more reason to accept my help,” insisted Harry stubbornly.

“No.”

The Conte rebuffed him curtly and stalked away, like a menacing cloud of fury; his wife gave Harry an apologetic, but tight smile: “Please accept our thanks, Mr. Potter, and our well-wishes for your safe return to England.”

And she swept away after her husband.

Lorena was ignoring him, pestering the investigators instead; Mrs. Degli Espositi simply regarded him with well-concealed, but nevertheless evident, impatience.

Obviously dismissed, Harry set his jaw firmly and walked away.

He was tempted, he really was, to leave them to their own devices. But there was a girl in danger and his saving-people-thing had never really gone away. He could excuse their shortness, in any case, they had to be under a lot of stress.

Plus, his own goal was with the girl, was it not? Either her or her paramour had taken the Rooks he was after.

And he had a lead, courtesy of the Vampire Lady.

Should he have insisted that they listen to him? But he had no proof, and he wasn't really a friend of the family: their distrust wasn't entirely unwarranted. No, better he track down the runaway on his own – and then he'd call her family.

Decided, he set off to figure out how to get to Milano.


	11. Pleasantly Unpleasant

Milano was not a pleasant city.

The Portal from Bologna opened into a busy train station, packed with people: thousands of muggles hurrying every which way under impressively vast iron canopies, the blinking confusion of departure and arrival announcements from the various trains, buses, tram lines and shuttles to the airports made worse by the overwhelming presence of advertising posters and videos.

It made Harry long for a secluded track like at King's Cross.

Outside, the first impression was of greyness: wet and hot, with an unpleasant smell and more polluted air than even London, the city did not recommend itself to Harry. At all.

Finding himself a good hotel room took no time at all, however, and after a tram took him to the area the Vampire Lady had mentioned, he could grudgingly admit that there appeared to be some beautiful palaces and things to see, if he should ever find the time.

He was not in the mood, however. Complaining of the climate and pollution suited him better right now. And the noise. Merlin, the noise.

The locals, he quickly discovered, were less than friendly. They seemed intent on managing the high number of tourists in the most efficient, but also the most detached way possible. He couldn't figure out whether they truly didn't know the first thing about anything that he asked, or they just didn't think a foreign bloke should stray beyond the standard tours.

They kept trying to convince him he wanted something different than what he actually wanted, like a nightclub, or a concert. Or a fashion show, of all things.

He quickly found himself wondering if trying the supernatural community might not be the best option.

Everybody in the wizarding world knew that Milano was, by general acknowledgement, the most infested city in Europe, her ghosts being renown and often feared, especially the Dama Nera, who was rumoured to drive random men mad with lustful love on a regular basis. When he'd flooed his friends to tell them of his trip to Milano, Hermione had earnestly warned him not to follow the smell of violets and to beware of fog.

The wizards who'd chosen to settle in the city were often judged mad, especially since the ghosts were rumoured to interact with the living a lot, even with muggles. Certainly they were a very active element of the local wizarding community and many people were unnerved by their interest in things like municipal meetings and city festivals.

Since Harry had essentially grown up in a school where the ghost population was numerous, lively and very present, he failed to see why this was such a problem.

He hadn't planned on meeting any of them, however; but after running into the wall of the Milaneses' less-than-helpful attitude, he reconsidered.

The market itself would take place on the following Sunday, he knew, but he had hoped to use the intervening days to get an advantage over his quarry. He wasn't sure how to go about it.

He moved along the embankment of the Naviglio Grande, watching the narrow buildings mirrored in the canal, spotting the occasional mill or old washhouse and guessing that the rather empty streets would fill up with people and noise in just a few hours, judging by the almost continuous series of bars and restaurants with tables outside, by the water.

He scouted out the rest of the area where the market would take place, somewhat reconciling himself to the idea that not all of Milano was grey and dull: the district of canals was rather picturesque and the whole neighbourhood around the famous Chiusa della _Conchetta,_ the sluice designed by the genius of Leonardo da Vinci, had that undefinable air of a place where poets and artists make their daily mark.

He could not see anything or anyone that might help him in his self-appointed task. And he did not have the time to blunder about and hope in a stroke of luck.

Ghosts it was.

Finding the supernatural community was pretty easy: all he did was track down Milano's version of the Leaky Cauldron, l'Osteria de l'Illusione, and half the patrons were translucent beings in variously historical getups floating over the stools and chairs.

Smiling at the grubby, shabby, but nonetheless warm atmosphere, that instantly made him feel welcome, he moved through the throng of vociferous patrons, shaking his head at how loud Italians could be with no apparent effort.

He was handed a coke by a grinning bartender as fat as he was tall, or short as it were, and spent some time happily people watching, smiling amiably at living and dead patrons alike.

“Not many foreigners are so at ease with ghosts,” pointed out a voice by his side.

He swivelled to meet an amused looking spectre with a thick, short beard and slicked back hair, dressed in a sensible late 19th  century suit, complete with disposable cuffs and collar for his shirt and a neat tie.

“Gerardo Campari,” the ghost introduced himself with a proper bow and a mocking glint in his dead eyes.

“Harry Potter,” he promptly replied, “and no, I'm not bothered. Why would I be?”

“Oh, all sorts of reasons!” answered a cheerful voice from his other side.

It belonged to a jovial spectre shorter than Professor Flitwick, but with incredibly long arms, dressed in a loose shirt and leather breeches.

“Nino il Nano,” introduced Campari with a lazy smile and the dwarf grinned, jumping up through the table to perch in mid-air over it.

“Or you could be disappointed,” suggested a third ghost, joining them at their table and sort of boxing Harry in. He had a long, sad-looking face but Harry noticed little else, because his eyes were drawn to the wide gash dripping silvery blood, that tore through his robe, his torso and a good portion of his exposed organs. “Some people think having dead spirits as drinking buddies should be more... exciting.”

Harry blinked: “Can you drink, though? I thought you needed very strong flavours to get even a hint of a taste – like rotting food.”

“Well, aren't you an expert!” laughed Campari.

Harry shrugged modestly: “Went to a Deathparty once,” he revealed and that made him an instant hit.

“I've never even been invited to one!” complained the ghost of the bleeding wizard. “Call me Fumagalli, by the way. Everybody does. What was it like?”

Harry launched into his tale and by the end of it, the three spirits were comfortably settled at his table, commiserating with poor Nearly-Headless Nick, and had somehow managed to order a round.

“Here, try this. My youngest brother invented it!” boasted Campari waving at the very red drink on the rocks with a slice of lemon in it that a waitress had just handed him.

Bitter with a spicy edge and an undefinable sweet note, it reminded Harry a little of pumpkin juice in texture, but more silky. It rolled around the tongue nicely and the bitter aftertaste was strangely good. By the time he'd finished his glass, he already wanted another.

The ghosts had been served odd-looking metal retorts, filled with their drink of choice, set up so that a simple word triggered a spray of incredibly fine mist right through their waiting mouths. They seemed to relish it.

Harry was fascinated.

“So, how did you lot meet?” he asked chattily, sparking a round of tall tales.

They were eager to share stories both of their lifetimes and deathtimes and Harry enjoyed himself immensely, even if half the things he was hearing had to be made up.

“No way did you do that!” he cried, grinning at Nino's claim that he'd spent two years taking revenge on a creep who'd been leering at his great-great-granddaughter, by shadowing him and every other member of his family and whispering the wrong lottery numbers in their ears.

“I'm not lying!” he protested. “Best thing is, they kept trusting the 'voice' even after half their family had lost again and again! It was one of his grand-kids who figured me out in the end. Bright young thing, went far in life. But her grandfather? Hah! The dumb shit didn't even call the Ministry down on me, oh no – all the blood down there, you see, and nothing left for the brain.”

_“_ _I swear_ on my far too many children, I had no idea she was in there!” Fumagalli insisted, after telling them how he'd scared a poor woman half to death by bursting into her bathroom.

“And what were you doing in her bathroom, then, if it wasn't to see her?” drawled Campari, spraying himself with a chuckle.

Fumagalli protested, feigning indignation, but Harry waved them all off: “Doesn't matter. What you did is evil, evil I tell you! I speak from experience – there was this one ghost, Myrtle...”

Laughter, talk and friendly taunts, _No ways_ and _I'm telling yous_ and _You'd better belives_ ; Harry couldn't have predicted just how well the night would go. The three ghastly friends were excellent company and if being patted through the shoulder or arm by uproariously laughing ghosts was like being doused by iced water, Harry found that a few Garibaldi cocktails made the experience much more pleasantly unpleasant.

Campari and orange juice in equal parts, he ought to remember that. He mused he might well have discovered his favourite drink. “And I really like its colour, too,” he said happily, apropos of nothing.

“Used to do it with carmine dye,” Campari confided with that teasing glint in his expression.

Harry's pleasantly buzzing mind nevertheless threw up a scant memory of Potion lessons. “Wait. Isn't that made of crushed insects?”

“Damn right it is!”

Harry blinked at his glass in sudden uncertainty. Then again... the Sleeping Draught contained flobberworm mucus and he'd taken that countless times.

And the Garibaldi cocktail was _good_.

Nodding decisively, he drank it in one go. “Next round's on me!” he announced, to appreciative cheers.


	12. The fun part

Hangover Potions were a godsend, Harry acknowledged the morning after. Late morning after. Well, alright, he might as well call it afternoon already. Didn't matter much: he had no appointments to keep.

He did have things to do, however.

Well into the previous night, he'd ended up sharing his reason for being in Milano with his new, ghastly friends. He'd been more candid than was probably advisable, but damn it, he liked them, and his instincts generally led him well. Though he knew the alcohol had had a part in his decision to trust them.

Still, they'd been keen on helping him and full of suggestions. The first and foremost being: “You can't hope to find someone you don't even know in the middle of a market, just give up on that idea, _amico_.”

They were right, he had to admit. It would be impossible to find his quarry in such a place, especially if he went around like a _tourist_. He simply had to change his approach.

Fortunately, the three ghosts had pointed him towards a very good solution: acting! Harry was almost gleeful at the prospect of playing the shady collector in the fishiest parts of the market. And really, why hadn't he thought of it himself? Infiltration had always been the most fun part of Auror training!

(Also, unfortunately, the one he was worst at, but he'd worked hard to get at least decent at it).

Harry stood in front of a transfigured mirror and contemplated the fake persona he wanted to build. What should he look like? What would give the right impression to the – well, to the _wrong_ people, actually? What could he pull off?

Old, young? Glasses, no glasses? Could he risk any magical disguise? Could he not use it – what would make his marks more suspicious?

He had an entire day to experiment... and a host of good ideas.

Nino il Nano was an expert in disguises, even claimed to have been able to twist the Animagus transformation to mimic a Metamorphomagus' ability, though of course he couldn't prove it, being dead. He had, however, coached Harry through a crash course in magical camouflage that was absolutely priceless.

Fumagalli had kept abreast of all the shady deals in town – not that he openly admitted that he was a man of ill repute in life... _but_ , habits and all that. He'd given him a list of contacts to check out that had Harry's eyes go wide. Oh, if only he'd had such informants during his almost-an-Auror days.

Campari just laughed at them all in that friendly mocking way of his – but he also lightly pointed out every single pitfall in their ever-evolving plan with extremely levelheaded precision. Despite the fact that he'd continued to spray himself with alcoholic stuff the whole night. He was a dangerous man to know, Harry thought ruefully.

Armed with the advice of his translucent friends, Harry set to disguise himself.

A good forty minutes later, he stared critically into the mirror and acknowledged with satisfaction that he'd managed to alter anything that could make someone think of Harry Potter. His Academy instructor would weep with joy. Harry had never managed to shed himself before.

Of course, this was all to Nino's credit. The pint-sized ghost hadn't bothered with spells or practices, no – he'd told Harry quite disparagingly that he'd need months, if not years, to learn everything there was to learn in that area; what he'd given Harry instead was a series of very, very useful tips.

“Transfiguration's the way to go,” had been his first, stern proclamation. “Glamours are far too easy to break. Or even just to detect. But who's going to check for Transfiguration, huh?”

Harry had gaped at his sheer genius.

Then again, he reflected now with a frown, some of the contacts Fumagalli had pointed him to would likely _expect_ glamours. Would it make them suspicious if they couldn't detect any?

Right, then.

Transfiguration just in case someone “accidentally” sent a spell at him designed to remove concealment, and then a glamour over it just in case someone “accidentally” sent a spell at him designed to remove concealment.

He nodded to himself, adding a few pounds to his figure and a smattering of age-lines to his face with charms. That would work.

The man who was staring back from the mirror looked like a middle-aged banker or broker – someone with a lot of money, but not a lot of visibility; perfectly in line with what one might expect, wasn't it?

He studied himself critically. The crow-feet around his sharp blue eyes were rather well done, if he said so himself, and went well with the rather plain face, curved shoulders and thin, slightly greying hair, neatly combed back in a way that, if he was honest, made him a little uncomfortable with the urge to smooth a fringe down over his forehead.

He was particularly proud of the hair, though, since he'd had to figure out on his own a way to change it without charming it, after being told quite firmly that wigs were out.

“Anyone suspects you're wearing a wig, they'll tear it loose easy as saying,” had explained Nino patiently. “Either you know how to entwine the fake hair with your own, which I can tell by your face you don't, or you're better off without. But you know what you can do? Thin your hair out. Or thicken them up, as it were, but not in your case, because you've got too much of it already.”

So Harry had dutifully changed the thickness of his hair, something that, as he'd learned once at George's elbow, was incredibly easy, courtesy of a non-diluted application of Hermione's favourite brand of SlickHair – fancy that – and that, to his slight shock, had an enormous impact on how he looked. Even without dyeing his hair. Which he'd proceeded to do anyway, to give himself a salt-and-pepper air, but still. Just getting thin, dry hair in place of his too thick, luxurious locks made a radical difference, who would have thought?

The icy eyes were also a bit unsettling, but he knew they were an important part of his disguise.

“You need a striking detail,” had said Nino knowledgeably. “Something different. Brilliant green eyes, for instance. Or a peculiar scar. That way whoever meets you remembers _that_ , and not _you_.” He'd snickered at Harry's glare. “Pity you already have those...”

But it was very good advice, even if it made Harry pout, because it was true. Scars, however, were dangerous. They needed a story. Better to stick with just genetics. So... bright blue eyes it was. Very light, not sapphires but ice.

And a colour-coordinated tie to strengthen the effect. So, a suit. Harry could totally pull that off.

Really, clothes were the easy thing: he'd never bothered with fashion at all, so he didn't care what he put on and it showed. In the way he moved, apparently. His instructor had despaired of him, but Harry had turned it to his advantage by learning to be utterly comfortable in any get-up.

Now, for instance, he could wear a muggle suit like he'd been born in it. Oh, yeah, definitely a banker.

As for the hardest problem with leaving “Harry Potter” behind... His instructor at the Academy had spent a good three months on the problem of his scar. Even faded and inert as it was after the War, it was still inexplicably resistant to most kinds of glamours. Anything Harry could cast on himself wouldn't have effect on it, much to his and his instructor's aggravation.

Hermione had come up with the idea of muggle make-up, which Harry had thought brilliant even as it gave his instructor conniptions (bloody pure-bloods). Sadly, it had proved far less brilliant than they'd thought, mostly because, unlike muggles, wizards still made use of fires in their homes. A lot. The warmth of the fireplaces tended to result in the makeup smearing off with sweat. Not good. And a localized refreshing charm every quarter hour or so? Also not good (and boring to boot).

In the end, Harry had learned to apply a more sophisticated version of the colour-changing charm to the skin around it, rather than the scar itself, modulating the tones carefully until the scar was completely camouflaged in the rest of his forehead and there were no visible “foundation lines” at his temples or anywhere. It was tedious work, but effective.

Now for the really important details… a slight limp? A nervous tick?... No, no, what if he forgot half-way through? Keep it simple, that was the first rule. So. Just changing his walk and stance, as his instructor and Nino both recommended. He could do that easily.

He fiddled with a few last details and observed the man in the mirror critically. Right, he needed a name... hmm... Grant. Nice and bland, neither too common nor too remarkable. John Grant? No, no, too banal. Joseph, maybe? Except he didn't like it. Robert. Yeah, Robert Grant might work. He sounded like a lawyer more than a banker, but that was all to the better, really. As luck would have it, Harry had taken a passing interest in environmental law some time ago: he could totally make this work.

Fine then.

Robert Grant, squib – no, wait: that would not only make the glamours suspicious but also prevent him from carrying his wand, a simply ludicrous thought. So, maybe a blood-traitor, then, from a very obscure English pure-blood family who had rejected him for his marriage to a muggle – everybody knew enough of the British troubles to buy it. They'd been wiped out in the war, leaving him filthy rich despite his disowned status, but only recently because of all the hassle the lack of a will and his inheriting despite being estranged had provoked.

Nice.

He grinned at himself, pleased with his creative effort. The icy-eyed Robert Grant grinned back, looking just as pleased.

Robert Grant... lawyer in the muggle world, closet collector; finally has the means to indulge his passion. Living in... Paris? He could do a passable French-accented English, courtesy of Fleur. Oh, but it would be drowned out by the translation spell anyway. Never mind then. And he had to be in England to fight for his inheritance the last few years anyway, right, forget Paris. Glasgow. Yeah, a better option. He liked Glasgow.

A lawyer from Glasgow, then, bitter against his dead family and determined to waste his inheritance on pieces of medieval art.

That could totally work.

Delighted with his success, Harry spun away from the mirror with a happy chuckle. He was totally going to adopt Alivjio Perrison's springy gait: it fit, and it gave him a discreet outlet for his inappropriate giddiness.

He was going to have fun with this!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of Nino's advice is borrowed from Lomonaaeren's "Changing of the Guard", one of the most amazing fanfics I've read.


	13. A Day of Legwork

He met up with his ghastly friends at another favourite haunt of theirs… an Internet Café, of all places.

Harry hadn't even known what such a thing was, but it was apparently very popular with the local ghosts: the owner, a young, crafty and obviously resourceful muggleborn wizard, had set up little booths with Silencing Charms and installed a voice-recognition software on his computers, so that the less-than-corporeal clientèle could partake of the joys of surfing the World Wide Web. Needless to say, it was an extremely successful business.

The three ghosts were at the counter when he arrived, rattling off the lengthy strings of numbers that somehow (Harry wasn't entirely clear on the details) meant they were paying, even though nothing as material as coins or cards was passing hands.

He went quickly up to them and greeted them exuberantly - startling them so badly that Fumagalli jumped straight through the receptionist; Campari's guffawing was drowned by the poor man's loud cursing. The sudden-cold-shower effect was never pleasant.

They went outside quickly to escape the dark looks and Harry was inordinately amused at how the glaring sun of an Italian late afternoon made his three comrades so transparent as to be practically invisible.

Harry's disguise was examined minutely and duly praised. Nino, his short, translucent outline shimmering in and out of view in the hot, yellow light, was puffed up with pride. “If I didn't know who you were, even I wouldn't suspect it,” he declared in a bragging tone – which was an exaggeration if ever Harry heard one, but it made him feel incredibly smug nonetheless.

He beamed brightly.

Campari drew himself up to his full height, for a moment shimmering a little more pearly in the small shade of a balcony. Harry would have bet the ghost was wearing his usual sardonic smirk, but when he spoke, he did so with unexpected sobriety.

“Now that you've got that part sorted,” he proclaimed, stalking forward like an inspired politician, “it's time to move onto the second, and most assuredly essential, part of your instruction.”

He stopped dramatically, letting his tone of voice ring with finality. Harry didn't have the heart to tell him that the pose he was (probably) striking lost most of his efficacy under the glare of the sun, because it couldn't really be seen.

Nino, on the other hand, had no qualms stealing his friend's thunder: “Negotiations!” he cried gleefully in Campari's stead, jumping before Harry and hovering in mid-air.

“Must you do that every time?” the taller ghost grumbled, irritated. “Every time. Seriously. Every time I try to say something of import... Is it too much for a departed soul to ask, to be able to make a suitably dramatic speech in peace?” he asked the universe.

“You're not departed, though,” pointed out Harry helpfully.

He got a glare for his trouble, but it was weakened by the sun-drenched yellowness of the afternoon, and in the end, they all laughed together.

“Seriously, though,” said Fumagalli, sweeping up to Harry's right and not quite throwing an arm around his shoulders, for obvious reasons, but giving a good impression of the gesture, enough that Harry could feel an icy touch brush him now and then. “Campari's right.”

The spectre in question mimicked Fumagalli on Harry's left and the wizard was reminded disturbingly of the Weasley Twins flanking him on countless occasions. He shivered, and not because Fumagalli's arm had slipped through his upper back a little.

“The art of disguise is a fine tool to have in your arsenal, no two opinions about it, but if you intend to brave the murky waters of art and antiquities trafficking, it simply won't be enough,” went on Fumagalli.

“You'd get eaten alive,” cackled Nino.

“Not to mention that negotiation… ah! The _noble_ art of negotiation!” interjected Campari, to whose heart, it seemed, this topic was very close. “Its usefulness in countless situations, my friend, is unparalleled. It is a skill you can simply not do without in life.”

“Or death.”

“Indeed.” Campari nodded regally and took an unnecessary breath before launching into a lengthy speech, Fumagalli providing a regular counterpoint to his proclamations with added pieces of advice, the both of them very successfully confusing poor Harry to an untold degree.

The wizard tried not to be overwhelmed by the veritable jumble of recommendations that was poured on him as they walked (or floated) briskly along the dirty pavements of Milan, but it was kind of hopeless.

“...Now, it is very important to remember that your opponents will come in two flavours: merchants and conmen.”

“Very different sorts, those.”

“Indeed.”

“Mind you, I'm not saying they won't all try and screw with you, because they will; but they'll be doing it in different ways…”

“The merchant’s joy is bargaining, never forget…”

“A skilled conman, you see, doesn't take; oh, no: he gets you to give...”

Harry's head swivelled back and forth between the two earnest ghosts, until he was almost uncertain of who exactly was giving him what piece of contradictory wisdom.

“Aim high. They'll do the same… don't offer all you're willing to give from the start… let them think they have the advantage… don't let them lead you by the nose... they'll expect you to be a fool, play the part… don't play dumb when it comes to expertise, show you know what you're talking about… believe nothing they tell you, check and double check everything they say...”

And so on and so on, with Nino throwing in a comment here and there while he wove through their legs irritatingly.

“Everything is negotiable. Everything.”

“Don't give anything away without getting something in return.”

“Stay in control. Lead the talk to where you want it to go, don't let yourself be led.”

“Don't be afraid to ask for what you want. The key to success is to be assertive.”

Just like the night before, the three ghosts were a veritable fountain of knowledge and expertise and Harry really wished he could do their teachings justice… but the sad truth was, he promptly forgot most of it.

Unlike the disguising stuff, which built upon something he'd studied and practised before, this was all new and he had no hope of retaining anything much on such short notice.

They didn't even really agree with each other a lot of the time!

“Don't take NO for an answer!” cackled Nino at one point, only to have Fumagalli sigh, aggravated: “ _Do_ take no for an answer! They don't really want you to – they'll chase you down if they think they're losing you. In fact, say no yourself. Loudly. Lets the other know you mean business.” He nodded firmly a few times.

Nino rolled his eyes: “If you give up like that you won't get a thing! You've got to be like a dog with a bone. Wear 'em down! Keep your eyes on the prize.” He gestured enthusiastically with his fists to underscore his words.

The other ghost crossed his arms over his knife wound defensively. “Being willing to walk away gives you power! If you depend too much on the positive outcome of a negotiation, you lose your ability to negotiate at all. So don't ever depend on it. Especially when you depend on it!”

Harry's mind was spinning. Trying to keep track of everything they were telling him was like grabbing water with his bare hands. Whoever said that Potions was difficult? Child's play in comparison!

“Above all,” told him Campari with a fanatical gleam in his barely-visible eyes, “shut up and listen. Seriously. Listening is a forgotten art!… All good negotiators are playing at being detectives, in a way. They ask probing questions and then let the other tell them everything they need to know to pressure him or manipulate him.” He sounded delighted, and a bit wistful; he must have loved this kind of thing in life, and probably didn't have many chances to practice his talent in death.

“Well, in your case, you're more like a detective playing at being a negotiator, but...” laughed Nino, elbowing Harry through his thigh.

“But that's all in your favour,” continued Campari smoothly, with an expansive wave of his arm. “Encourage them to talk – ask lots of open-ended questions, make interested noises no matter what they're babbling about, you know the drill.” He scrutinized Harry for a moment. “You do, don't you?”

The wizard nodded quickly. This was more familiar ground – interrogation and such. He'd been trained in it. Sort of. A little bit. He could swing it.

Hopefully it would be enough.

“Here we go,” said Fumagalli abruptly, turning to an uninviting alley with a lingering, unpleasant smell, too narrow to let the burning sun in.

Harry blinked. “This isn't the Mercato, is it?” he asked uncertainly.

“It is and it isn't,” was the unhelpful reply and with a bit of hesitation, the wizard followed the ghost into the cool shadows.

Fumagalli waved his arm through something that looked like a hanging lantern, but was obviously enchanted in some way because it chimed a pure note, not unlike a doorbell.

A moment or two later, a short, balding man with suspicious eyes was opening a door and giving them a leery once-over – which turned into a mistrustful but expectant glare when he recognized the smiling Fumagalli.

Thus started Harry's foray into Milan's not-quite-entirely-legal art and antiques market, which turned out to be a rather different world than Harry had expected.

Much lighter, for one.

Apparently, no shady deals were made in shady rooms. Oh, no. It was all luxury and comfort and wealth, or at the very least, a good illusion of it. Everything bright, elegant, fashionable. Harry had to fight the urge to pout.

“Shouldn't criminal activities be, I don't know… dark?” he whispered discreetly.

Fumagalli gave him a thoroughly condescending look: “Where have you lived so far? In a muggle fairy tale?”

Harry almost felt betrayed. His Auror days (not to mention the War) had involved a lot less chandeliers and a lot more mud, that was for sure, and he rather thought that was the way things should be. Who could believe these posh, aesthetically designed establishments, these Art Galleries in the city centre, even, were basically the same as shady warehouses and dirty back alleys?

Campari was the only one to offer him a sympathetic grin. “There's no point to art crimes unless you can attract the right clientèle. Filthy rich collectors don't want to meet in dingy warehouses!”

Harry could only sigh. It wasn't fair. The Malfoys would have been right at home here – and now that he thought of it… yeah, ok. Forget his whining. It all suddenly made sense.

At least he had a guide, even if it was a ghost of questionable life and only slightly less questionable death. He was unspeakably grateful for that.

Fumagalli was priceless. He was utterly blasé when introducing the disguised wizard and then kept making such a fuss about “finder's fees” and “intermediary duties” and “rightful percentages” and his own role, that most dealers were sufficiently distracted from “Robert Grant”.

Plus, he knew everyone in Milan – or so it seemed to Harry. Granted, he had to steer them clear of certain people, limiting his introductions to those of his contacts who didn't hate him, and to whom he didn't owe too much money, and who hadn't been swindled by him too recently… but it was still an impressive list.

Far too impressive, when one considered that they were hitting the no-questions-asked, business-under-the-counter, so-long-as-you-pay-well side of things - and from what little Harry could guess from Fumagalli's comments, they were barely scratching the surface!

However, he couldn't afford to be distracted by his own morals: he needed every ounce of his focus to stay on top of the game.

So whenever his inner not-quite-an-Auror railed against some of the most blatant displays of contempt for the law, he consoled himself with thinking of it as an infiltration mission and redoubled his efforts to fool his marks.

Once his mind had turned to the Malfoys, he'd adjusted his behaviour to mimick Lucius at his most coldly dismissive and paradoxically, most of Fumagalli's contacts had _relaxed_ at that. Apparently that kind of arseholery was expected of someone like Robert Grant. Good thing he'd seen how the aristocratic criminal behaved in Knockturn Alley. Beyond that, he played up his passion and covetousness for statuettes and minor idols (he went so far as to actually buy a small terracotta representing Ixchel and a rabbit, even if it wasn't the point of his charade; but in his defence, the sculpture was good. If likely stolen. He would just… let the authorities know about it later, or something…), he babbled about art or history whenever he felt safely competent, he pretended that the world revolved around his supposedly growing collection of figurines, never batting an eye about fudged travelling documents, too-vague origin descriptions or the implication of smuggling towards Estonia.

The afternoon went by in a blur, yet also stretched on forever.

Harry made no objections to being led wherever Fumagalli thought best, he went in and out whatever building the knifed spectre indicated, only complaining when his guide forgot he couldn't pass through walls; and he let the other two ghosts pounce on him after every meeting, to assess his performance and point out what he should do again and what he should try instead.

His mask grew better with every encounter, much to Nino's delight and Campari's mocking but surprisingly insightful praise. It was, he supposed, their way to be part of the action and he didn't begrudge them. He needed their enthusiasm, because all too soon the ruse of being a somewhat haggard oldish man started feeling too real for Harry's tastes. By the third meeting he was feeling completely wrung out.

He felt like a spinning top, being passed from various sorts of art merchants (charming or formidable, unctuous or refined, well-versed or tasteless, but universally greedy)  to perlaceous critics always ready to demand more of him. And without anything concrete to mark his success in this quest. Of course, he kept his ears pricked for any hint of Giorgia's or Foscarini's presence, not to mention the Rooks, but in vain.

Still, he persevered, sympathizing over the bothersome magical enforcement of the repatration laws and insulting art merchants for their greediness, throwing in comments on the value of Mayan fertility idols or praising dizzying details of porcelain animals…

Under the direction of his ghastly companions, he managed to let people infer that he was rich and potentially willing to throw around his supposedly newly-inherited money, but also played the avaricious collector with as much ruthlessness as he could summon.

Oddly enough, he wound up finding that Vernon Dursley's not-quite-lessons on the topic of swindling (well, his uncle had called it 'sound business practices', but really...) were incredibly useful for his current task. Loath as he was to recognize any good in his upbringing, Harry had to admit that his uncle's incessant rants and loud attempts at teaching Dudley customer manipulation, had made an impression on him too – and as he went about scouting Milan's illegal art market, he put those lessons to good use.

It was exhausting.

Still, he was quite proud of how he managed, every time, to casually drop the mention of “...oh, and chess sets. I'm quite fond of chess sets. Not as lovely as household deities, of course, but a bit of a passion of mine. Do you have any?...” before moving on to other things.

Hopefully someone would take the bait.

All in all, there were enough dealers that wouldn't distrust Harry on principle just because he was with the knifed ghost, to keep them quite busy 'till well into the night.

He really, really hoped it would not be all in vain…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's interested in a more realistic description of Culture Crimes (antiquities theft, art crimes, looting, trafficking and so on), both in Italy and in the rest of the world, I recommend Dr. Donna Yates' blog (www.anonymousswisscollector.com).


	14. Resting in Peace (and Quiet)

The day after, despite having collapsed onto his bed in untter exhaustion just a few hours prior, Harry woke determined to do it all over again; only to be told that he couldn't. Or, rather, shouldn't.

“Out of the question,” Fumagalli shook his transparent head. “Bad enough we did so much yesterday, we shouldn't have, but you're in a hurry, so we didn't have much choice...”

“But why?!” whined Harry. “That girl could be in danger – _is_ in danger, I--”

“No, no, no!” the ghosts cried earnestly. “Too suspicious – giving the game away – best to let things lie for a while, give people time to spread the word…”

Harry felt like breaking something. So far, all his efforts hadn't yielded any results: he'd found no hide nor hair of the girl, her paramour, or the Rooks!

“Patience!” Campari rolled his eyes. “She'll be in no more danger today or tomorrow than she was yesterday. You've cast your lines, now's the time to wait for the fish."

"Yeah, so don't go scaring them away by splashing about and making awful noises!” cackled Nino, who always delighted in running a metaphor into the ground.

Harry wanted to rage, or at least argue (maybe just pout a little?), but Campari's sardonic tone in his ear was too calming an influence: “Don't be in a hurry. No matter how much you want to get it over with. I know it's difficult, but if you rush, you are more likely to make mistakes...”

The other two echoed him. These things took time, they insisted. He should not feel discouraged. He'd done far too much in a very little time, now it was best to wait. Patience was his best ally…

Needless to say, Harry did not like it one bit.

“Word is getting around,” the spectres told him reassuringly. “Let rumours do their job. Pressing now will make everybody suspicious.”

“Let's do something to keep your mind away from things,” decided Nino, not-quite-grabbing his wrist (and chilling it thoroughly).

Before he could protest, Harry found himself boarding a rickety yellow tram - and was swept away into a whirlwind of sightseeing.

Tram 1 and ½, which ran in parallel to the muggle Tram 1… and Tram 2… and 3, and all the rest, up to line 18, for a total (as he read on a pamphlet) of 170km (many of which intersecated in somewhat incompatible ways. Ah! The wonders of magic!) was to this day the preferred magical means of transportation within the city. Harry found it rather comfy, not to mention fascinating in the way it lenghtened or shortened depending on the number of passengers, somehow never having troubles with turns no matter how long it got. He didn't bother trying to figure out how it was possible (the explanation would go over his head anyway) but just enjoyed its varnished wooden seats and fluted glass lampshades, and the fact that, as he freely admitted, it was a much more pleasant experience than the British Knight Bus.

They started with the Castello Sforzesco (where the magical tour could be paid to an evanescent, ghostly ticket seller who declared himself bored to death – making Harry wonder, really) and its labyrinth of rounded turrets, spacious courtyards and secret passageways. The castle had nothing on Hogwarts, of course, but then again, the artists represented in Hogwarts had nothing on Leonardo Da Vinci, Michelangelo and Andrea Mantegna, who had decorated the halls of Milan's symbol.

Nino somehow got them all to the off-limits part of the roof atop the spiked, gothic Duomo (it turned out, he was on friendly terms with a good deal of the colony of Gargoyles who lived among the pink marble spires up there) and Campari provided them all with a quick, witty description of the landmarks in view, from the Torre Breda and the Pirelli skyscraper to the snow-capped Alps in the distance, sometimes with help from the most social Gargoyles. Watching the landscape while hanging in the warm breeze from the stone paws of a winged, lionesque devil was surprisingly relaxing, Harry conceded - like flying without the usual effort.

Then Fumagalli dragged them to the quietly, darkly beautiful church of Sant’Ambrogio, where the mournful ghost of a Roman General sat on the Stilicone Sarcophagus day after day after day, holding court for whoever passed by or even no-one at all. That day he had an audience of two – a pale ghost in XVII century travelling clothes (“Dead during his Grand Tour,” explained Campari in passing. “He just keeps doing the rounds like any tourists of that age, day in day out. Pleasant enough man, though.") and a small child who listened to the stories of gruesome ancient battles in awe (“Muggleborns,” commented Fumagalli absently, smiling at the boy's slightly older brother, who was staring at his protruding knife in fascination and traying futilely to touch it. “Hope their parents won't be too perturbed by their tales.”)

Harry knew that his friends were quite determined to keep him firmly away from his investigation and distract him enough he wouldn't mind.

It sort of worked.

By which he meant it didn't work at all – he kept worrying and fretting the whole time – but the ghosts were right, he risked jeopardizing all their hard work if he wasn't careful. And they hadn't steered him wrong so far, had they? He should just trust their advice. Especially since he could see the sense in it. Sigh.

At last, Campari took them all to Villa Necchi Campiglio, where, he explained, a 'good friend of his'… not-lived: “She'll let us spend the afternoon,” he assured (and was he blushing? Harry goggled. The grey in his cheeks was definitely more intense!).

Said good friend turned out to be a tall, slender lady with broad shoulders and a thin waistline, who looked like a star of an old movie (an impression strengthened by the luminescent lack of colour of her spectral figure). She wore a white, narrow skirt flaring down to her mid-calf and a matching jersey jacket, with more ethereal pearl-strings than her thin neck could probably carry easily and a small white hat over her silvery curls, pushed tightly back across her head.

She welcomed them with understated elegance, barely acknowledging Campari's gallant flirting but doing nothing to discourage him either; then led them through the portions of her home empty of tourists, moving among (and through) beautiful vintage furniture, all marquetry and velvety upholstery, all the while casually describing the 'fabulous designer clothes' that filled her (former) wardrobes to a thoroughly uninterested Harry (who was nonetheless too polite to yawn in her face).

Outside in the garden, Harry spotted a café beside the outdoor swimming pool with some relief, and had to remind his friends that, as a mortal, he actually needed to eat, and endure their impatient pouting while he procured himself a sandwich. After that, though, they kicked back and relaxed in the beauty of the flowerbeds.

Harry found the place delightful. He particularly appreciated how nobody seemed to see the corner of the garden they'd settled in, at all. He wondered about it and got a nebulous answer of 'wards' from their host – some variant of the notice-me-not spell, he guessed: he wished he could learn, but apparently, if it wasn't dresses, she wasn't interested.

He let it go and just relaxed. Cooling charms helped him cope with the sweltering hot day and the tourists coming and going didn't really disrupt the quiet. He wasn't even bothered by the silvery lady droning on about outdated fashion, whether or not anyone was listening to her. (She didn't seem to care. Or even notice. She was the epitome of glamour, good manners and immaculate taste, but she was also, quite frankly, boring).

At one point, with their host having drifted off to the side on her own and Nino having managed to provoke Fumagalli into a heated argument about something complicated to do with lead poisoning and ducks (which Harry was sure would have turned physical had they had a chance, but alas, punching a ghost just isn't properly satisfying), Campari and Harry moved towards an ancient-looking fig tree and sat together in comfortable silence, enjoying the shade and the beauty of an Italian garden.

“Why are you helping me?” Harry blurted out of the blue.

Then he coloured, faced with Campari's raised eyebrow – sardonic and inviting at once.

“Don't take me wrong! I appreciate it. Really,” he said quickly, trying to express his earnest thanks and his doubts at once. “It's just… well, you… you're fantastic. A godsend. But… why?”

His honest confusion seemed to soften Campari a little.

The ghost sighed wistfully. “Ah, Harry. You are so very young.”

The wizard blinked.

Campari looked away into the distance. “Do you know how ghosts come to be?” he asked softly.

“Um. Yes,” said Harry flatly, confused by the turn of the conversation.

At a slanted return of the Eyebrow, this time in sceptical version, he hurriedly elaborated: “When a wizard or witch dies but chooses not to go on, out of fear of the unknown or because of unfinished business or whatever, they can leave an imprint of themselves upon the earth, like a shadow of their soul, to walk forever where their living selves once did, in a feeble imitation of life,” he said flatly, remembering all too well his heartbreaking conversation with Nearly-Headless-Nick after Sirius' death.

“My, my. You _are_ an expert,” mocked Campari gently. “You're quite right, of course. Now, tell me… would you make this choice?”

“Of course not!” exclaimed Harry easily. Then realized how it sounded and who he was talking to and coloured again. “I mean… I don't mean… I just… perfectly legitimate choice, it's just...” he mumbled.

But Campari was shaking his head gently and looking away again: “No, no. No offence taken, my young friend. You are, once again, quite right. I wouldn't recommend it, no.” There was sorrow in the ghost's voice, but then he turned a smirk on Harry and the glint in his greyed eyes was teasing once more: “Apart from anything else… it is very boring!”

That surprised a laugh out of Harry.

“You have no idea what a breath of fresh air you are for us, Harry,” continued the ghost earnestly. “You… _interact_ with us. You make things happen – that is a prerogative of the living, you see. We are stuck in the patterns we set for ourselves in life. Because we chose to remain behind where we no longer belong, because we're neither here nor there, we cannot truly change. But if a wizard acts around us, upon us, then we can be _active_ again. It is almost addictive… and sadly quite rare. Even here, in Milano, where ghosts are considered citizens… well. For the greatest part of the population we are but oddities. Like the Gargoyles on the Palazzi. They might bear with us, they might even like us, but they look at us as parts of the landscape. Which we are, in a way, but you… you give us a chance to be something more. Think back, Harry. There were many ghosts drinking in the Osteria that night. How many were drinking with a living?”

The wizard frowned. Now that he thought of it…

“It isn't for lack of trying on our part. Some of us are more alert than others – some of us," he swallowed, "mostly because of the kind of life we lived, we hold on to more variety than most; and we do our best to cling to it. Fumagalli and his dodgy deals… me and my chatting up people in bars. When they let me,” he said wryly. “But even Nino will end up stuck repeating only the same funny story after a while. The Essence of Life is Change, as the saying goes, and we no longer have that option; not unless magic is involved. And…”

Campari sighed. “For those of us who understand what we loose in this pale not-life of ours, it is a torment. To become nothing more than a caricature of what we once were; to be forever constrained in the narrow paths of our not-death.”

He shook his head a little. “You heard my good friend earlier. Stuck on the one topic, over and over…” Campari's smile was melancholy. “That's us ghosts. Never moving on, of course, and therefore… _never moving on_.”

“But you aren't like that!” protested Harry. “You've talked about tons of things, you've taken me places, given me advice, you--”

“Because of _you_ ,” said the ghost calmly. “ _Thanks_ to you.”

Harry didn't know what to say.

Campari just smiled and left him to his thoughts.


	15. As Luck Would Have It

On Sunday, Harry, back into the proper suit and springy gait of the blue-eyed Robert Grant, took in the Mercato dei Navigli from a straw chair by the canal, sipping a cup of tea that made him miss England fiercely.

Full of people and animation, the area looked ten times better than it had two days before.

The market was offering the most diverse wares: collectibles, crafts, games, modern antiques and vintage clothing. Curious or idle tourists mingled with purposeful collectors; people who just wanted to fill their eyes blending and mixing with people who were looking for inspiration and people who knew exactly what they wanted.

Abandoning the horrid tea, Harry delighted in nosing around, picking up a decorated vase for Mrs. Weasley, a ridiculously orange bow tie and suspenders combo for Ron, a few toys for Teddy, a shawl for Grandma Andromeda and an used book or five for Hermione; letting himself have fun while he waited for his spectral friends to arrive.

Fumagalli had argued that he should check with his contacts by himself, to avoid making them suspicious.

“People like Robert Grant are desperate to get their hands on the 'special' wares, so they're very careful not to look desperate to get their hands on the 'special' wares, so if you look too desperate to get your hands on the 'special' wares, people will get suspicious of you!” he'd said very fast and very keenly – and Harry, after a few days of the rascal ghost's circular logic and earnest-conman routine, had just given up without arguing.

Nino had thrown in his two cents, confident that their efforts would yield results today, if not straightaway, then indirectly.

“And I'll take care of _that_ part,” he'd said with relish. “I'll go round, nobody'll notice me, I'll ferret out all their secrets. If they go and lie to Fumagalli, which they probably will 'cos nobody likes him--”

“Hey!” had protested the thin ghost, hands on his hips in a way that made his slashed chest gape open disturbingly – but Nino had ignored him, waving his long, long arms about: “--and then they turn around and they've got the Rooks and are going to sell to someone else, I'll find out! Then you sweep in and intercept them and _voilà_!”

Campari for his part was off visiting with a few of the more alert ghosts in the city, who, he told Harry, tended to gravitate towards politics. “Unlike me,” he'd shrugged. “Business was always more to my liking; but it pays to cultivate the connections. In the unlikely event that your lovebirds might have attempted the legal side of things, my friends will know. These Death's Rooks you mentioned would not go unnoticed by our community, that much I can assure you!”

They were all ablaze with plans and all anxious to convince him he needn't be the one to put them in action. After his chat with Campari, the wizard wondered if his friends just wanted to feel involved with something – to feel part of the events, to feel _active_ , as the spectre had said.

If that was it, however, Harry was ok with that. Even if it meant waiting. (Urgh.)

So he wandered aimlessly in the hot, dazzling sun, vastly grateful for cooling charms, admiring the colourful busyness of everybody around him and trying not to grow impatient too visibly. 

Of course, it figured that with all their careful planning and masterful execution, in the end he stumbled upon what he needed by sheer dumb luck.

“You sure Certami isn't onto us?” asked a raspy and clearly nervous voice at one of the cafés, _right_ when 'Robert Grant' was skipping past, intent on a booth further down.

Disguising his jerk of shock with a skill for improvisation long since honed, Harry slipped into the nearest free seat and grabbed a random newspaper that had been left behind, pretending to be engrossed.

“I've heard his reputation. This won't do me any good if I'm dead!”

“Will you stop whining, you bloody coward?” scolded another, deeper voice.

Harry chanced a glance and spotted a short, middle-aged man with thin hair and a neat, expensive-looking polo shirt, darting his eyes here and there and twisting his hands anxiously, sitting opposite a dark-haired, tanned younger man with a gaudy watch and a hint of a gold chain peeking out of his opened lilac shirt.

“The cursed bastard is chasing his tail in Firenze, I made sure of it. No-one can track me down if I want to disappear, you should know this by now,” the dark-haired man said with arrogance, making his small coffee cup twirl before him.

That had to be Foscarini, reflected Harry. He was handsome, he had to grant him that much, short but muscled and with a casual air of Mediterranean attractiveness; but the first impression didn't indicate a charming personality. And with what he knew of the man... This Giorgia girl mustn't be too discerning, he thought.

Turning a page to cover that he was drawing his wand, with a rustling that made him grimace, Harry sneaked a tracking charm to the man's shoes, then stilled the paper and carefully eavesdropped on what he was reasonably sure was his target, bargaining back and forth with the nervous, greedy buyer he was meeting.

“Stop whining and hand over the money!” hissed Foscarini at last, leaning towards the other man menacingly, only to lean back and smile tightly at a young waitress a moment later.

“Not until I see the merchandise for myself,” whined the other, as soon as the tanned, dark-haired girl was past, her green apron suddenly cutting off Harry's view of the table he was spying on.

“What can I get you?” asked the waitress brightly, preventing him from hearing Foscarini's reply. He almost jumped out of his skin: he hadn't realized she was headed his way.

He barely refrained from cursing and quickly ordered a coffee (he wasn't going to subject himself to another Italian tea).

“Sure thing!” she chirped, moving about to make space for her round green tray, and gather up the soiled glasses before him, _and_ wipe down the table, _and_ neaten the chairs and, and, basically do her job, damn it, but did she have to do it in such a way as to block his view quite so thoroughly?

His attempts at peeking around her weren't working very well and she stopped twice to ask if he needed anything in a slightly worried tone. Had he lost something? Did he need any help?

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught his two marks slipping away in the crowd and he had to remind himself that hexing a girl for being friendly and helpful to an apparently older patron was ridiculous.

He eventually managed to send her off, at long last, and tried to locate his targets in the throng of multicoloured marketers and loiterers, finally spotting the right lilac shirt, already a good distance away, about to turn into a side street. This time he did curse.

Scrambling to his feet and abandoning both the newspaper and his unfulfilled order, he hurried after the two men. Only his incomplete Auror training stopped him from making a scene by throwing the small tables in his way in the air with magic just to get to them. (He could imagine his former Trainer yelling himself hoarse if he ever did something so foolish. And what would Campari say? He'd probably go all sarcastic!)

At least his charm was relaying their whereabouts. That was good. Sadly, he didn't know Milano well enough to take much advantage of it. That was bad. Why hadn't he got himself a map of the city while he was playing tourist? Damn it, he'd been out of the game too long!

It took him a few twists and turns through shaded and unkempt alleys, and almost tripping on a cat and tumbling into a wastebin, not to mention running into a dead end and forcing down the temptation of just blasting the gate open and going through, but he managed to stick close enough to them that they didn't slip out of range of his tracking charm.

Frustration and triumph warred within him. And oh, how he liked this. The _thrill_ of this chase! If only they'd let him do this sort of things, without demanding useless forms in triplicate before _and_ after, he'd have never left the Corps.

The two men stopped at an old, recently repainted yellow building with what looked like pretty balconies on the two top floors and a discreet sign indicating it was a B&B.

They looked around suspiciously before entering and Harry didn't break his stride, passing by unhurriedly without sparing them a glance, still in his Robert Grant disguise and muttering about something inane that was in the paper earlier. They didn't pay him any mind (staring at a retreating biker instead) and he kept his smile strictly internal. 

Now how to get his hands on the Rooks? And where was little Giorgia?


	16. Not Found

Magic was wonderful. It let you conceal, suppress or dissemble your presence, obscure, veil or shield yourself from the senses, and all with just a few words and a bit of wandwork. Wizards and Witches had, over the centuries, become exceedingly _good_ at hiding.

Almost everyone learned at least a couple of disguising or cloaking spells – to be able to apparate without too many worries if nothing else: many a time, hiding yourself very, very quickly was enough to convince an unexpected Muggle that they'd imagined it all, saving yourself the hassle of a Ministry intervention (and subsequent fine). Anyone who worked, lived or interacted with Muggles generally built up a decent repertoire of camouflage spells pretty soon and would not easily give themselves away. Of course, this also tended to apply to less savory types. If anyone wanted to lie low, magic was the way to go.

Harry's generation, for obvious reasons, had gone above and beyond this standard, basic set of hiding spells.

When a scent-masking charm or an obfuscation spell meant life over death, you found yourself uniquely motivated to learn – and learn well. For the once-kids who'd fought in the War, disillusionment, concealing and sound-deadening charms were as familiar as scouring and cooking charms. For Harry, who'd kept his war-gained skills up to par because of dark wizards, paparazzi and assorted fanatics, they were practically second nature.

Of course, he had very little time to cast right now (though this part of Milano was obligingly rich of arched front doors, perfect for ducking into and throwing up a bunch of concealment spells in a hurry) but that's where his natural talent came in: he had the power to chain his spells for quick-casting and the long practice to do it without losing precision.

And his ancestors' Invisibility Cloak, which was still as perfect as always and much better than any disillusionment (and not at all cheating, whatever Ron said).

He spared a quick laugh at the irony of using Death's Cloak to track down Death's Chess Pieces…

Of course, in most if not all cases, the other side had magic too. That was why for every disguising spell there was a revealing one, most often with variants that could be included in a warding scheme, be it runic or wanded, embedded or flighty. And for every revealing ward, there was a detecting spell allowing the disguised wizard to dispel it if he could catch it in time…

It was like a game – a game Harry excelled at.

Which was why he was rather disappointed that his opponents didn't seem to be playing.

He ran through the whole set of detection spells he knew, while he quickly but cautiously made his way back to the building the two men had entered, without triggering a single response. With every step he expected to trip a ward or set off an alarm or _something_ , but no-- nothing. Nothing at all.

Between the excitement running through his veins and the wish to feel some satisfaction for his own skill, Harry found it a bit of a letdown.

It was like they hadn't bothered with putting up any magical protections around the place at all! Granted, there weren't many Wizards around – Milano wasn't well-liked by their kind – and perhaps they hadn't thought it necessary... but still: it was shoddy.

The door of the B&B opened easily with a silent _Alohomora_ and he went in with less care than his usual, too busy frowning at his targets' sloppiness to worry about staying hidden, at this point.

He froze when a strange sound surprised him.

It was a soft buzz with perhaps a slightly mechanical tinge to it, now and then interspersed with a soft squeaky grating. Harry had absolutely no idea what could be making it. A ward he'd missed? A creature? Something muggle?

...It was probably something muggle. Made the most sense, really.

Grateful that he was still under the Cloak, he scanned his surrounding warily. Of course it was a muggle gizmo of some sort, what else could it be? This was a muggle dwelling – the buzz was probably just electrical… stuff.

After a moment, he located the likely source: a longish rectangular white box with a sort of plastic hat, mounted on a white arm that grew out of the wall. It had a thick black cable running from its back like an unending tail, fixed to the wall and disappearing somewhere into the ceiling, and a black eye on the other end.

A creepy moving box with an eye? It took him _far_ too long to realize what it was. A camera! A security camera, CCTV most likely. Relief swept through him – and irritation, at himself mostly. How many times had seen something like this while growing up? And now he could barely recognise it!… Oh, dear Merlin, he was turning into a Pureblood idiot.

He made a face at the thing: it moved unnervingly in a swiping pattern, as if it was sentient and looking for him. Harry shuddered. He was reasonably sure Muggles hadn't figured out how to give inanimate objects brains, but he stood frozen just in case.

It panned slowly, occasionally tilting, and gave Harry the unpleasant sensation that it was busily recording everything its eye was catching. It reminded him unsettlingly of the _custodia circumdatus_ , a surveillance spell much liked by all law enforcement Wizards because it produced a log of anything living and/or magical that crossed into its area of application, helping with paperwork immensely – though Harry had always found it a pain, because unless you tied it into an alert of some sort, you had to monitor it continuously for it to be useful.

...He was really in a bad way if he had to cast muggle gizmos in terms of spells to understand them. He was muggle-raised for Merline sake. How had he come to this point? ...Was he going to start shouting at telephones next?

Right, no. He wouldn't let it happen! He was going on an all-muggle retreat soon, and catching up on all the technology he was out of the loop of. Hermione would probably keep him company, if he asked nicely.

After a moment the camera completed its swipe of the room and stilled. Harry breathed out. At least his Cloak fooled mechanical eyes as easily as biological ones. Not that he imagined the thing could be any danger to him. It almost certainly had nothing to do with his targets. He'd been spooked without reason.

He made his way upstairs hurriedly – but cautious again – but when he heard a muffled sound of shouting from above him, he chanced a Supersensory Charm.

Luckily so! The first thing he heard was a string of loud cursing from the incensed buyer (“... _Maledetto fedifrago figlio di un cane!...")_ that made him wince a little because if his translation charm didn't kick in then the insults had to be… creative; but then it morphed into understandable outrage: "...sucker! You trying to swindle me? These are fake!”

Harry stumbled on the last steps of the stairs.

_What?_

“What?” Foscarini echoed him with a squeak and the genuine and horrified shock in his voice gave Harry some dark satisfaction, even as his mind whirled.

Fakes? _Fakes?_ Where were the real ones, then? Who had them? If Foscarini hadn't stolen them... but he thought he had...

“ _Oh,_ ” breathed the buyer, his tone going from enraged to nastily amused. “Oh, oh, oh! You got swindled yourself! Ha ha ha ha! Couldn't happen to a more deserving bastard!”

“Shut up, _brutto pezzo di merda_. Shut up!”

“Who was it? That piece of tail you dragged off with you? Ha ha ha!”

“She couldn't have.”

“Ha ha ha ha! It was her, I just bet! Where did you say you left her? Bet she ain't there no more!”

“Treviso-- and will you shut up?! I'm telling you she wouldn't!”

“She worked you over properly, didn't she! Thought you were so special, seducing that stupid child – and all the time _she_ was playing _you!_ Oh, this is rich!”

“Shut up!” yelled Foscarini. “One more word and I'll curse you so badly your bastards will feel it…!”

Harry retreated. He'd heard more than enough.

Well, well.

Back to the Mercato dei Navigli, he got himself an ice-cream, sat down at yet another small table under a colourful beach umbrella and pondered.

What the hell was going on?

Clearly Milano was a red herring (had the Vampire Lady deliberately misled him or was she just as taken it? No matter) but whatever those two said, he couldn't really believe that such a young girl was a criminal mastermind of the caliber they were implying. She was what, seventeen?

As soon as he thought this, he kicked himself. What was he saying? At her age, Voldemort had already murdered Myrtle and his father's family and framed two others for it! At her age, Malfoy had managed to let a bunch of terrorists inside Hogwards and come close to murder Dumbledore! At her age, Harry himself had already… his own thoughts trailed off.

Yeah, ok, no need to get into details on that.

Point was, the girl was totally old enough for such a scheme.

She was also missing. Along with the Rooks she'd stolen. And he didn't have a clue of where to start looking for her. And Foscarini, by the looks of it, wasn't going to be much help...

What to do?

Nino was the first to find him, swinging himself up his table with an acrobatic jump that wasn't any less impressive for going through the upper pole of the beach umbrella. He looked awfully excited and Fumagalli, who followed him a bit more sedately, was terribly smug.

“You'll never believe it!” crowed the diminutive ghost. “We have such news!”

Campari showed up not a minute later with lazy nonchalance and leaned on a chair without properly sitting down. Harry noted that every Muggle in the vicinity, despite not seeing the ghosts, obviously, started looking around uneasily and rubbing goosebumps off their bare arms. Within minutes they had all moved away.

He didn't pay too much attention to their discomfort, however, because Fumagalli did, indeed, have news.

“The Certami Family Rooks will be available in Venice tonight, for a private sale,” he told Harry, smug as you please. “Two potential buyers have already signalled their interest with appropriate offers and a suitable down payment. I have taken the liberty of doing the same on behalf of Robert Grant, adding him to the short list,” he said primly.

“Brilliant!” Harry enthused.

“You will, of course, reimburse me,” the spectre added off-handedly.

“What? Oh, yeah, don't worry,” Harry waved this off easily. “This is great! You were great!” he went on in high spirits.

Fumagalli demurred praise daintily, but was clearly pleased with himself. He stretched with satisfaction, making his knife wound gape unattractively and ooze something silvery. Nino, who was taking his share of the compliments without anyone needing to offer it, settled comfortably on an inexistent hammock between the table and the beach umbrella over it, looking as satisfied as a well-fed cat.

“Strange that they would be sold in Venice, when our friend's information led him here,” commented Campari. “Are you sure your contacts are trustworthy on this?”

“Absolutely!” cried Fumagalli, offended. He collapsed onto himself at once, crossing his arms defensively.

“Pretty sure, yes,” confirmed Nino more calmly. “No idea how the trinkets ended up in Venice, but it's confirmed that they're there. Word of mouth is pretty fanciful, let me tell you – seems like it was a kid who brought them there, if you'll believe it!”

“Oh, I just might,” said Harry darkly and recounted what he'd overheard.

Nino laughed so hard he almost choked – which, considering he didn't need to breathe, was rather impressive.

Fumagalli unwound again and chuckled: “I might just have to toast that girl. Such precocious conning talent! Wish I could meet her. Shall we find ourselves some booze?”

“It's not even midday!” chided Campari.

“And I have to pack,” added Harry. “Robert Grant must be in Venice tonight, after all.”


End file.
